spend an empty day.

At around 9-9:30, I rise from my dark brooding bed, always clutching to the colder side of the bed for the beautiful woman that isn't there.  I stumble, like a sullen monk, swaying back and forth down the hall till i reach the toilet.  I piss for a solid minute and a half in circular sweeping motions, making a mess of the bowl and the surrounding ground.  i take a handful of toilet paper clean up the runoff of urine outside the bowl and bathroom floor, and then heave to yank the chain with a downward thrust.  i shimmy my way, walking almost sideways toward the shower. i let the hot water run too hot against the floor of the tub so that when i transfer it to the shower placing my feet in, the air is instantaneously polluted with a colorful display of expletives.  i shower for a long time, sometimes for a half hour, letting the grime of my life wash off me over and over again till the top layer of dermis begins its ascent toward a peel.  i get out of the shower opening the window to let the half hour of steam merge with the surmounting or dissipating fog. i don't use a towel. i air dry with all the extra time. it is restorative to my hard-water damaged skin.  i stare at myself in the mirror, not in a vain way.  in a meditative, don't worry its the psyche that's telling you you're ugly and you must defeat this mentality, way. i  brush and floss [sometimes]. i don't comb my hair. i dress quickly, a light coat of moisture still dripping from my legs.

i get in front of my computer and go through craigslist looking for jobs, but i never find anything.  i check my email, then i cruise craigslist again for a missed connection, but i never find anything.  I build a massive sandwich. i do my best to remember what day it is.  i drink a beer. i watch Maury Povich.  Chamida has the six men she slept with the nine months before Tavon was born.  Maury says the same thing to all six men. 

"In the issue regarding baby Tavon, you are NOT the father!"

All six men have the same reaction.  They stand on top of the horrid looking furniture and exclaim to all mighty that they knew they were right. meanwhile Chamida scurries backstage, her hands in her face, wailing like a depressed manatee.  Maury comforts her telling her backstage, that he and his producers will help her continue the search for the true father of baby Tavon.  Then they cut to a commercial.

Commercials during the day are geared towards losers. They know its a bunch of couch potatoes and unemployed slackers watching Maury each day so the commercials try to inspire these people.  One commercial is for J.G. Wentworth a claims attorney specializing in helping those hurt at work [the only suitable excuse for watching TV during the day].  Another is for Wyotech, where you can get your technical degree in 18 months as a technician or a mechanic or as a dental assistant.  the gecko is selling insurance.  Another is for baby wipes. 

 They are selling advertising space to stay at home moms and losers without jobs.  I turn the television off.  I walk to the coffee shop. I order a large coffee and write a lot of nonsensical blather. I try to write one thousand words. Today after this sentence I'm at 590 words and as usual, its fucking nonsense. A friend told me once that when i write with too much structure like a daily account [like this piece of shit], or something linear, it's usually shit.  He said, the only time your shit is great and compelling is when you get weird. just get weird.  so i crack another beer, a china beer and I'm going to write something weird.

HOTCAKES

I, mumbles out a the devastator, the ground all porous in sinkholes.

where-what comes rapid-style quicksand that eats you up;

your idea, your thought, all the motivators sucked into a vacuum.

awake in a room that is one solid bed. the doors open inward,

so you can't get out. you're stuck like a shut-in, in a room, so just sleep soundly, curled

up fetal position, like you are back their safe in mumsy's womb.

sleep so that the backache moves up each disc, all wiry spindles of tension.

you wake one with the word. lithe. lithe for the lifetime.

let inspiration seep away with your finished china beer. 

tan sedan of modest horsepower is a feeble modifier of your future.

truculence and the capriciousness sure to conjure itself from thin air.

big words symbolize a lack of depth in your pants, but i recognize,

take hold, find a new pallet to blend the flavor of your disgust with yourself.

make it up, hold it steady to your temple, feel cold steel, a metal taste,

a minor tremor from the feet, up your legs that shakes the discs into 

massaged comfort.  breaths of cold fog, swelter heat beneath blankets,

a drapery of leather constricting, the chase around the playground.

strip myself down; take off nice swede shoes, argyle socks, my dumb khaki's,

button downed collar bullshit, a solid tie.  down to my god-damned undies.

all he's got to do is stop hating himself long enough for everyone to believe he

doesn't hate himself. its compensatory illusion and it sells like hotcakes.

have a nice weekend friends. I'll be on my way.