With Fat and Calloused Mouth

It is the rye that lubricates the reeds within my battered Marine Band.  Lemon Rum merely warms them.  Wine has no effect , leaving the reeds cold, lame, soulless.  The rye makes my mouth feel fat and calloused like the mouth of Sonny Boy Williamson.

          It is the acoustics in the bathroom that echo the wailing and moaning and stomping.  I drink the in the crapper on a Sunday night, pouring my woeful out before the Monday morning machine dance.

          The phlegm gets flowing from all the sucking and blowing.  I get fits of hacking and gurgling.  These spasmodic bouts summon up the spirit of my three pack of Player’s Plain a day Father, yacking and hacking in his work week weary morning ritual.  Because of this, I blow and suck into the battered Marine Band with a fat and calloused rye mouth with a certain holy conjoining with a dead father’s spirit, succumbing, surrendering to a lineage of weary.  It gives the week a sense of balance.  Rituals are crucial in a deteriorating world.

Scrambled Eggs

She made coffee and scrambled eggs.  I lurched about in her living room and pondered her objects, her books.  It is becoming ever more clear to me that a person is all about their objects, not so much about their books.  It is clear, also, or becoming clear, that it is not merely about the objects, but the objects in conjunction with their placement in the living space.

          Hence, I’m lurking about in her living space, reviewing her objects and the placement of her objects while she is in her cooking space making coffee and scrambled eggs and humming a song that we danced to last night, or at least I think we danced to it, or it may have been playing in her sex and sleeping space and we have sexed and slept to it rather than danced to it—it all gets muddled sometimes the next day.

          The scrambled eggs seem to have a hint of Worchester added to them, as, while I lurch in her living space, I can detect the odour of the Worchester emanating from her cooking space and it is a good warm scent that arouses a homebody spirit, a remembrance of grandmother’s kitchen and grandfather’s beer and tomato juice :red Eye” concoction which he loved adding Worchester while sipping at it sitting at the kitchen table.

          Because of this, I experience a moment of happiness, a fit of happiness, if you will, something I equate with Kerouac’s instant alleviation of depression in Big Sur, just a sudden impulse of a smile, for no apparent reason, a scent, a noise, an idea, a memory, and suddenly I am attacked by happiness, smiling for no apparent reason, peaceful in the soul, close to God, embraced by Jesus.  Ah, that it would be a permanent condition.

Cars

to hear her tell it.....

She was conceived in a Studebaker, lost the little finger of her left hand in the door jam of of a Fairmont, her virginity on the hood of an Impala, left her Northern hometown in a Bel Air with a guy who she left three months after arriving in Hamilton for a guy who drove a Cougar, she had two kids with him before he died when he crashed his Trans Am on a Burlington Street overpass.

she's had a few beers during the telling of this.

solstice day

   We swam in the bay on solstice day, arms slayed chaotic in joy and drunken stupidity.  Somehow,we both knew were making a memory, smiled, and spit a stream of water into the sky.  A moment fully in love with the notion of being alive.

rememberance day

    Father choked on his breakfast, Instant Quaker Oats--Apple and Cinammon flavour.  he hacked and gurgled and spewed until an artificial hunk of apple was dislodged.  he spat it out into his hand, looked it over, put it back into his mouth and chewed it with a fury.

    Sister watched television in the living room. She turned up the colume to drown out the old man's noise.  She knocked over a glass of orange juice returning the remote to the chair side table.  The glass smashed, spreading yellow liquid and turquoise glass all across the worn and weathered hardwood floor.

   The dog ran through the living room and got a piece of the turquoise glass in its paw.  It yelped and whined and ran up the stairs and crawled under mother's bed.

   Mother lay in bed reading romance novels, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, screaming at the dog to shut up.

pizza hut man

       He was trying to get back on himself back on his feet.  That's how his counselor had put it. "One step at a time, get yourself back on your feet."  He appreciated the help getting off the booze.  He missed his wife and kids, but they'd been gone so many years, he wouldn't even know where to find them.  He appreciated the job holding the pizza sign on Main St.  He got to see a lot of people.  It helped him to feel part of things again.  "One step at a time" .Each person that responded to his hello ws one small step.

    On a Tuesday, he said hello to a young mother walking her two children back from school.  She did not respond.  It reminded him of his wife and children.  He watched the children walk along with their mother for the entire length of the block, smiling a rememberance smile.  The mother looked back, but did not smile.  Fifteen minutes later the police came and took him to the station and questioned him, rude questions about sex.  He brought the sign back to the Pizza store.  They took the sign and paid him 30 dollars for the day and told him his services were no longer required.

morning eggs

    Morning eggs mix with blood, an arousing flavor of life and death.  The eggs are from the fridge, the blood comes from a canker sore on the inner part of my cheek that i bit into.  A day that begins with a finite ethos.
     The leaves remain green.  There is a respite these days, from what exactly, I'm not certain.  But there is a sense of it, an odd sense of solace.  It is strange, but it isn't weird.
     Perhaps it is merely something I dreamed last night.   We are victims of our dreams.  I don't recollect my dreams specifically--which makes it more unnerving, this sense of solace.  Perhaps it will come to me over me the course of the day.  It is  early yet.
    Just returned from my piss.  My face in the mirror looked acrid and inflamed.  I could attribute this to unconscious trauma that i have yet to actualize and acknowledge, but it is likely merely the result of the cheap laundry detergent i washed my pillow case in yesterday.