I’ve rationed my tears for years, to be released at what I once thought would run scarce. So after the first when they fell in tiny salty seas drunk up by the weeds, I dammed up the flow with what I was convinced was self-control, and in a sense I shred from the inner workings, carefully arranging a monthly meet as though I was at an office or a payphone’s foamed serene blue carpeted Rubik‘s cubicle filled with consultants. It felt almost worse If you were still here it would be of course. But presently….. the pressure’s had a heightened level. I looked behind my own blue eyes, back into the bowels of my own brain to see buoys. Some people call them memories. These buoys, remarkably bright, some; others, banged around in a cerebral fluid so many many memories before, bobbed , but with less bob and more the movement of a teenage bed head before breakfast on a Monday morning. The both of them, beacons in the same body of water, but those bounced about, the brine of time and 1000s of total revolutions of the earths axis while being sloshed in my skull, whilst spinning, sooner or later, some buoys sink. I know. It stinks. I try not to think about not thinking about it too much. I stand at the bathroom sink and show my teeth to the smartaleck in the mirror smiling back. He would tell me I need to see a shrink if I needed a shrink to sit on his rear sofa what would we (Shelb and I) ever speak of when I stopped by the Java Cabana to give her a jab at my ‘animus’ or they always average answers. I am annoyed to witness myself be rated, berated by after a few bleak cups of Joe some barista with a black hair and blue eyes like mine, bustled around intriguing me but barely because I am barely here to begin with so it’s back to the whipping post with Miss White. Midtown - the Metropolitan metrosexual latte, enema, art, extrovert bonanza b—-f*^£ extravaganza it is, bless its bachelor degree in business associates and yoga poses- yawn. It’s your “modernist “ marquee model of Memphian mid-20s to middle-age mosque of anti-anythings and fill-in-the-blank free zones all facing their phones and facing Nothing, Apple left you ALONE, all you f*iending and swiping all the time and the time it tells you there is not one second to spare because you’d already been programmed to downward dog your derrière into the next generational gap where we can ALL have it ALL, and - wow- without wearing animals or eating animals or endangering animals or pain to see animals in captivity and without looking like an animal like I do when I fix my mirror and animal or not I’m not too proud to bark out loud or piss anywhere in public if I’m particularly intoxicated or how when I walked down Cooper Avenue and Young and catch the in crowd out and running wild in the most tolerant of states. I watched the women Wag their tails and worship their nails while their neutered non-gender-neutral, neo-poodle pals all pretend to be 14-year-old gals. Gosh. I growl and bear my teeth and ‘git’ before the bleak brained faux blue collar can buy another pabst blue ribbon at the deli. My appetite isn’t up to the androgynous waiter./waitress, who wants to write down my appetizer on their after hour aperitif- it’s a green tea leaf with a gluten-free seltzer, and a shot of apricot vodka with a Pfizer pill- on the rocks. I know it’s 2020 already but if one cannot decide one own gender, how am I supposed to be comforted in my safety space (feigns shock-) if they’re pouring me these pansy ass shots? I leave , and immediately start running over civilians in the parking lot. Lit. I’m lit. That’s why I wrote this hit. Hit n run. That there’s a drinking reference, children. (Hiccups.)
