NOW, FOR REAL
– For Richard Loranger
Manners and mind games and mind games and manners matter more than mind games matter in the never ending I you we, I you we, I you we times three is all I need to get through this poetically selective gallery of vowels and/or processing to
find ourselves or at least find myself confused & unable & unavailable & inaccessible & unclosable with marbles hemorrhaging out of my eyes, ears, nose, mouth and it’s not so bad, calming even; it helps with the healing from being stood up when you didn’t know you had been stood up.
It isn’t just drugs that are wasted on the young, it’s the privilege of living in a pause button DADA media interface context where there used to be a consensual reality. Seriously, who am I supposed to go to for help with this shit? Oh hell, I’m not rich enough to even ask that question in the first place.
I used to know what all these alpha-numeric symbols represented until the visions came and blurred them into shapes I couldn’t remember much less recognize. I need to get away. I may need to invent flight. But I don’t want to invent flight. Dwelling on the past should come with a mandatory cooling off period.
These are days when only the periphery holds, when I need something outside the tether of my own flesh and blood to demonstrate for me why a hot slug of metal boring a nice smooth canal through the center of my gray matter isn’t the best answer because for all the authenticity of truth and beauty they aren’t all they’re cracked up to be now are they?
I’m not saying I need you to have an answer but I may need you to drag me over to the next page and assign me a simple task like finding a hair brush or putting my shoes on or at the very least some kind of prompt for daily life but please I beg you, leave the affirmations at the door; those are what dragged me into this quagmire in the first place.
If the truth will set me free, and freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose, then dedicating myself to truth must mean I’ve truly hit some kind of bottom at the end of my socially sanctioned rope and even then one can’t be sure the truth they’re getting is the really pure, un-stepped on shit; shouldn’t we all be doing background checks on all our truth dealers?
And who has the time for all that shit anyway and it’s late and it’s dark and all this truth and baggage is wearing me out. I’m tired of lying even though I feel completely unprepared to be emotionally honest with myself so I guess I’m not tired enough yet, huh?
Would you be willing to hang out with me if we just had a cup of tea? I think it might be getting close to time for me to shut the fuck up, to take a nap, to breathe slow and be patient enough to take a little time to inspect all my little creative spaces.
At least I know what to expect from a cup of tea, or a nap, or a slow breath. These things behave consistently, while things like caring and patience and listening require so much more work for so many of us. I’m not saying I don’t want to talk, I’m saying that at the moment I’m unable to talk like a rational entity. Later I will want to talk, but later is always too late.
Please just hang here with me for this cup of tea which I promise will not spiral into a cup of coffee, which will not spiral into an espresso, which will not spiral into a glass of wine, or shots, or a cigarette, or a joint, or a line of blow, which will not spiral into a three finger molly scoop, or Angel Dust or Heroin, or Jimson weed, or mushrooms or…
…well, wait. Maybe the tea can spiral into mushroom tea and maybe then we can read the tea leaves and maybe that can all just happen later and maybe this is the right time for me to shut the fuck up now, for real.
About the Author: Paul Corman-Roberts is the author of ‘We Shoot Typewriters’ from Nomadic Press (2015) and is the co-founder of the Beast Crawl Lit Festival. He edits fiction for Full of Crow online and spent the night of the Rodney King riots barricaded inside a Circle K convenience store because he had a really great boss at the time.
Artwork: Hayden Martin