Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Still life

" What do you see when you close your eyes?" She asks through creeping tears behind a veil of swirling smoke. I hold my breath, momentarily ignoring her. I exhale two white plumes through my nostrils as my entire body tenses. I remain erect with my back straightened and my eyes closed inhaling and exhaling with rising and falling shoulders fighting back waves of nausea. As the feeling to wretch subsides it’s replaced by growing numbness. It spreads through my body prompting my muscles to completely slacken. I rub my tongue against the roof of my mouth savoring the complete lack of feeling. My eyelids grow heavy. It feels as though weights are attached to my long lashes. I manage to hurriedly pass her the straw and the small square of foil moments before I collapse into my chair. I sit staring at the opposite wall, my hands firmly rested on the armrests with my slack mouth hung agape.

She repeats, " Baby, what do you see?"

I look over at her with squinted eyes, lick my dry lips, and reply: " Nothing. Gray matter lined with silver. Sparkling strobe-flashes of marvelous light - sparkly sand. Nothing…." I click my tongue as my head drops, my chin jockeying for position on my chest. I mutter, " Nothing, just feeling really good. Kinda’ tired, and good…."

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Delusions of Grandeur

Corner booth ordering bottle after bottle of hot sake in a black suit and tie like some fucking big-shot as the rain pours down in cascading sheets pitter-patter timpani. Summer-cold nagging ear-ache throbs like a swollen red toe in a Looney Tunes cartoon or like a claymation Rudolph’s nose... what have you. Depressing day and I need to get fucked up nice and good.

A friend of mine described it as "sweet sake drunk." However, drinking shot after shot like a thirsty impetuous wino "sweet sake slow suicide" might be a more fitting metaphor… or would that be a simile?

Rushed thoughts flit from one topic to the next, from one person to the next, from one emotion to the next, in rapid spitfire succession. Unable to press pause or rewind consequently I’m unable to closely study or articulate one or the other instead I assimilate them all as one frenetic fucked up liquid cacophony. The interesting mix of Actifed, ephedrine, and alcohol result in delirious loopy paranoia. I’m reminded of my crack smoking days and all the fun shit that comes with: carpet diving, lying, and stealing out of grandma’s purse.

I remember once I hid from a cop under a hoopty car dripping hot oil on my bare back in the middle of winter. Pig prick shining his mag light in the trees and in dark corners ready to cuff me because I looked "suspicious." So I stashed my bag of rock deep in the frame, rolled out from underneath, and ran like Carl Lewis pumping my fists as my thighs burned with unholy pain. A block away cop’s partner tackles me, frisks me, and finds nothing except pocket lint and some pennies. I was ticketed for "criminal mischief."

As I sit in the corner slamming sake shots and Kirin I think back to this moment frozen in time. A half smile slight shadow flashes across my face for the briefest, imperceptible instant replaced by the usual scowl.