“MONIKER” by GARETT STRICKLAND

This stuff about life is no good for me. The present squeezes me thru its sphincter. Here I am. Taaduh. If there were a view to encompass, you’d be the first to know. Stash your longing in a clever metaphor. Cook up some chili like a real man do. Get a grant to go to the dentist. What else do we do once a decade? Are loved. And if the mongrel designation had never grown tired, perhaps some unguarded communion among three to five persons of similar taste or sensibility. The tongue massaged into conversation. Bridges that come easily. The good sense to aspire toward austerity at night. But I carry caveats in my pocket like smoke bombs, and memory is gnarlier ever than fond. To tease the milk from a clump of ash requires too much too often. I’m on the side of a hill, trying to improvise a geodesic dome out of twigs and a slice of bleached french bread. I’m hissing to myself about popular culture. I’m recalling how the vats need drained.

 

What foul magicks do I wanna run next?     A diet of heat and bone. A surreptitious and lilting call from some near-at-hand woods. To count my blessings would require I excise a finger.  And out at the far end of chaos, past the old train tracks and the burnt-out newspaper stand, some new kind of pet has burst the membrane of good taste and risen from that puddle to warble what passes as your name.

 

If I had time for everything that sees me, I’d lapse back statuesque. I put the most offensive inquiry to whatever planet I’m on with every step I bargain for, and this is our tacit agreement. Oozing gluten as I carbonate the bitch. Nature impales itself and twists upon its axis, lets its hair grow out. The arrogance I’ve earned is nonspecific. Nothing you say is going to convince me the advent of motion was anything beyond bad planning of conglomerated, egocentric forces, but since I’m here I may as well make tracks. What do you think this is about, anyway?

 

A long-distance assassination slips thru the cracks, sniped across time at the back of one’s skull from an eternal vantageif the one behind us wasn’t playing cute by blowing in your ear. Oh well. There’s always next time.     Okay, I quit. I quit and quit quitting until I fail up, hit the glass ceiling, and realize I’m still in my crib.