forte: an afterthought

today i begin once again to pick up the pieces of my half labored life.  today isn't an attempt or a proverbial stab at genius. rather it is my sincere hope to put down enough words to make myself exhausted.  Again, I'm not looking for uproarious laughter or a symphony of clapping as the last words are read.  i just want to send you to bed with a feverish smile that burns inside, not on the cool bright whiteness of your teeth.  

i must get my life organized if i am to achieve even nothing.  my room in particular is some kind of prehistoric cavern of deathnails, eyelashes of a shrew and hairs of a loser, roil, boil, toil and bubble! with a black trash bag and a machete i trek into the black vortex that is my room. what came of all these half drank glasses of what's now distilled-filthy grey water? how many collections of fliers and business cards does one need? why are these books and magazines strewn Appalachian shanty house style piled up like some destroyed house of cards? why dirty socks and undies on the floor and not in the hamper, my son? why without the semblance of earthquakes or tiny tremors do records fly off the wall? bus schedules from last November really need be around? discarded beer can, a sip left, dust mounted top region, blue fuzz inside no doubt, throw out, sound good? newspaper articles on deposed chieftains, heads of state now in disgrace can enter that black bag, no? go get colds, from three week sheets need a wash and a fold, summertime lightness, give it a chance. some girl named andrea's number on a napkin, really worth keeping, since you don't remember her in the slightest? a million and seven dust-bunnies hop away with agitation from the loud vacuuming freeness about to ensue. 

my eyes glance over everything i place in this bag.  little tiny memories or casualties of my faulty lifestyle of wine, women and song [except without the women or the song, and whiskey and beer instead of wine]. Alas sobriety struck me as an option to alleviate the cold shiver of my bones each morning and night, to stop the gagging-acid-reflux recurrence, slow the peril in my blood, ascetic scribe gets a good night's rest for once, a Balzac-Prozac adventurer finding his will in the stellar flux*, kebabs of great luck on the grill and a portion of water that flows into my mouth just as the beer used to surged like wine; it quenches my thirst, finally. 

they call all this illusion or delusion.  i just want call it my beginning. 

*Thanks to the bald guy on the right-------->