Please Guide Me Joe Exotic

Life is a series of constant nuisances for the type of person who only likes to do everything once.

The simplest habit, regiment or routine is a repeated agony and practice in self flagellation. A daily masochism where the tools of torture are by means of showers, dress, dinner and breakfast. Relentless punishments in exercise, texting to friends, grooming or washing hands. Having to talk to strangers on the subway is the new solitary confinement, and the very basic comforts of modern living, designed to ease the grim and harsher realities of life, become the guillotine by which the human spirit is executed every day.      

So it doesn’t bother me that I know my baby’s leaving me. She took me to her room where there were mason jars lined along her window sill and dresser, fig leaves and lean stems lovingly decorating each wide glass about the size of a basketball. A closer look and I saw petite cocoons and moths encased in every falsetto museum, sitting still as the hot Summer day. Or maybe they were just still like death. When I asked if it was true that they only lived for a few months she said yes, and suddenly hobbies were the most depressing thing in the world. I got to thinking about my own, how maybe everything was so short and fleeting, stuck in glass jars for the majority of the time and when you’re finally let free it’s all over before you know it. 

What is the difference between a hundred days or years anyway? Perspective, mostly. Mayfly’s are born, grow, mate and die in under forty-eight hours. A full life; bred, sewn, and unmade by Tuesday, before I can even get started on yesterday, or wrap my head around what to do with myself  for all the years yawning ahead of me.

Then I felt better about myself when the inevitable arrived. She said she wasn’t ready for something so serious, and that it wasn’t someone else when I didn’t ask, so I knew it was someone else. And I could tell she thought it through, what to say, because there was something rehearsed in how her tongue massaged the words out so flawlessly.  

I gave her a hug and the No-Hard-Feelings riff. Dropped off the birthday gift I was saving and wished her the best with a smile, and as I walked out the door I could tell she was bothered by how well I took it. It’s selfish, I suppose, to break a persons heart and expect the pieces to still be yours. But I can understand, loving it when people leave but hating to watch them walk away so casually.

And I would probably miss her more down the line, maybe, but at that moment I simply didn’t. The only feeling that I could register was autonomy, freedom. Not having to listen about her dads problems or pretending to be interested in political science ever-a-fucking-gain. No more death by routine, the suicide of increments. It was finally just me and my whims again. 

The prospect of being an individual again felt exciting but a corner of my heart would not succumb, a tiny portion of my soul winced and braced for impact. At the time this felt right, but a part of me knew that I always confuse what feels right with what feels familiar.

Is It Really Ghosting If I Never Answer Your Texts Anyway

Hello. I’m sorry it’s been such a while. Are you eating well? Did you get that thing you really wanted? How’s your job? Have you called your mother lately?

I know I have a habit of isolation and that I don’t reach out as much as I should, and I respect you far too much to make up some sorry excuse that’s more of a social reflex than sincerity. Like saying I-thought-I-hit-send-on-your-last-message or that “Work’s been crazy.”

But lately I’ve had a nagging conscience telling I might be neglecting my little corner of the internet, and while I absolutely hate any feeling of obligation, I’ve grown enough to not be so selfish and know I do at the very least owe you an explanation.

Projects much larger than just myself (and anything I have ever accomplished) are taking shape, in mediums I’ve never been in, with other artist I’ve never worked with.  It’s all very exciting and fulfilling, but time consuming and exhaustive.  I haven’t the time to grow those seeds and remain active, so until they’re complete this website will be under a kind of radio silence.

I hope and promise to share more once I’m able to, and I appreciate those of you who bother frequenting, haunting, or lurking (whats the difference really) this little haven of fiction and poetry I’ve created. I’m thankful for your continued support.

On an unrelated note, e-mail responses will also be put on an indefinite hold. I wish I could respond and I am truly sorry,  it’s just that works been so crazy.

Always,

N.

 

The Idiot (aka Homer’s Beer Run)

Heaven is hell-bent, a misshapen sanctuary
where men make sinners out of love, sibyls from
devils and saints out of the fairer sex. The
less clever pray for deliverance in a cup,
Gods nectar; bitter-sweet ambrosia by the barrel;
His holy bottled excellence, sixteen fluid ounces,
light, stout, pale or pilsner, for nightly immortality.

Dear deacon of the deli, bringer of
my bread and sacrilege. Clandestine
clerk who offers passage to His hazy
river Styx, in brown paper bags and
long side glances that confess
disbelief a 2AM pilgrimage can wait
for the sacrament of home.

Two coins short, and Charon grins,
no ferry waits when his toll goes unpaid.

Forgive me Ahmed, for I am dimmed.
Sweet Gods of Hell and mercy, grant me light,
and credit, that I may learn peace and pass
this dark and grim abyss, to far and pleasant lands
where one dreams and is awake.

Charon nods, Pity, he says, Go-Then,
Take-It, Go-And-Bid-Farewell. But
Heaven has no room for cleverness;
this world is a loan to be repaid,
and I will you see you once again,
with a stone at your back
and Hell at your heels.

Our hero sobers on, a long voyage home safe,
with bags of ambrosia, two pockets full of coins,
and the hidden smile of Sisyphus son.

Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful (aka Any Mythical Beast Try To Step They Are Catching These Hands)

Evenings are my clementine, when the sun dips and the world bundles into itself. An atmosphere perfect for the monomania of melancholy, where the mass of sound has a quiet you’re afraid to disturb. Like a cutting board to gut these thoughts. There’s dirt beneath my fingernails and my lungs taste like apple cider beers and tinder. Tents pitched some distance apart, the soft swish of sifting body bags and sex tinge the air.

Beyond the bonfire is a boundless void and damp darkness, with monsters, goblins, ghouls and God knows what lurking in the shadows. Twigs snap, earth brushed, A movement that isn’t human and yellow eyes dancing wildly out in the expanse. I stand and take my phone like a lantern towards them, because bourbon veins and my sex make me courageous. Let me face demons before the lush or my virtue fades untested.

I am alone but not, in a quiet I am afraid to disturb.  Like in my city I am braving the night, but in a different type of solidarity. There is no loneliness in nature, only peace and an acute sense of how insignificant you are. But as the moon makes wet shadows on the floor and I raise my sword, the monsters that greet me have names. Tara, Joseph and Adam. Lost, bleary, red eyed, high and chuckling; empty head nods.

A deep desire for isolation overwhelms me. I want to be alone, but more so. To be by myself is not enough. Some pieces would remain, parts, fragments, fractions of dismantled moments floating through the recess of all that thought they knew me. All my love(s) and acquaintances stumbling on a memory of me like a tombstone. Notebooks full of words and a catalogue of half-started almosts. Someone somewhere would come across something Summer or frost enough to summon me and think, Oh-Yeah-Just-Like-Him. Pollute me with their thoughts. No, I want to be alone, but more so. Memory is a form of life, a mental gossip, social whisper, scandal and internal dialogue. Casual inferences never spoken but permanently embedded in thoughts. I crave something more permanent- to be erased and irreversibly forgotten.

To be alone without the pollution of what another person thinks.

To face monsters, not people. 

Even The Sharpest Smiles Aren’t Fangs To A Monster (aka Insomnia’s For Suckers)

“Are you awake?” You want to say, but you don’t.

His guitar gullies in the corner, still. Wood and golden as his breathing as he sleeps beside you. An Adonis? No, maybe a Midas. A touch full of ruin you couldn’t disturb because what a peaceful perfection is the steady palpitations of his back. Your hand reaches for him but winces, no, not yet. It’s only 3AM and his sleep isn’t deep enough. So you watch the back of his neck trying to read between the lines and soft locks your fingers know all too well. He has the talent and latent mishaps of an artist; a body bordering on megalomaniac when his temperament is bored enough to cheat on you.

But who was she? You wouldn’t know, although you’d like to. Reluctant masochist as you are, you never dared to ask. Instead you wrote it down on a notebook full of questions you promised to ask when he came home tired and stinking of band bars and his lust of you. You’ve always had a thing for the kind of men that can’t keep still in their affections. Wander-lust would be an under-statement to what you felt when staring out a window, two wings shy of taking a dive and flying to where lungs would take you. Was she beautiful?, you think, Or did she admire you with the same eyes you did that night in a cab ride he made his face turn more shades than the moon?

You aren’t sure and that doesn’t drive you crazy any more. Insomnia’s been a bitch but lately you sleep much better off than before. Complacency is a dangerous and tragic enemy always snipping at your heels, but V doesn’t make you feel that way. He could be anywhere, with his artist fingers strumming the neck of the next unsuspecting one-off, but he isn’t. He’s here, and he is now, and when you leave to text and stroke the redux of Evan and Eddy’s there won’t be a need for explanations. It will be the silent needs of your relationship, needing each other without a need to be exclusive. Simultaneously mad in love and loving madly whatever fire is ignited in a strangers eyes and touch. Two apostrophes far and hanging on each other, and the bodies that lay between are the sentence.

Him, the beginning. You, the end.

“Shut the window,” He mumbles beneath the pillow and his elbow.

“Mhm,” You say, but don’t.

Because the moonlight reminds you of someone else.