The sun exploded today. Great…it’s t-shirt weather again, and the heat is still kicking, and I’m still writing, and so it’s been a good run, but now it’s over again.
And for a while I’ve lived in a new house, and now like before, everything old is gone but me, and my art is old and needs to be edited but I don’t know if I can read it anymore, or even look at it for another second. On and on, and this could go on forever. I miss things that some do not, but I see things that most do not, and everything is boring, and what season are we in again? I’m so confused, and this tends to happen when you lose everything again, and it’s not the spring…not yet…right? No…and everything is so ridiculous, and for all I know it could be the end of the world and who would even have the time to know that something that big was happening? I’m thinking that it probably happens slowly on a universal scale, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened before…
And remember: you’re always told to try to be happy, that’s what she said, and she hated me, so fuck her, and now it’s time to grow up…she also said that, and I hate her too. She said grow up writer boy, and I want to, and growing up, GROW UP ; that’s what I keep saying to myself, but then out of nowhere I start writing and typing just like the spontaneous storm that ignited an early spring time song, and my eyes are focused and I said there’s no time to do anything else; I said, there’s only time to get into the groove and with these sharp poetic teeth, yeah, even you kid, sometimes even you forget that life needs nothing but motion. Sometimes, even I forget that the words are a song, and I know that…it’s just I forget sometimes, more than sometimes, most of the time… I forget, and even you can admit that once in a while the thirst for blood feels good and so that’s why you allow yourself to become nothing but rage again, and I’ll burn it down if it’s ending, and that’s what I said to her, and truth is, words are worms and I’m somewhere wrapped within the sun, and it’s March, and its eighty-three-degrees out, and this is where I am:
I sit in the house within a world as the universe storms on towards something else, and I was told to not be so overly sensitive, and I was told this by these numbskulls who take too many downers, and she told me this, just like you told me this, and you said chill out and go to sleep, and then I watched you like a rat as you zoned out like a zombie while taking too much of your migraine medication, and in time, even you’ll laugh like an asshole when you kill me, and that’s what you’re going to do. You will do it and so please, enjoy my funeral, because I don’t care. You can blame me for everything your parents did wrong, and I’ll forget about you and you, and when it comes down to it really…no…I don’t care. And I don’t know why, but it happened. The sun exploded today and nobody cares and nobody knows how, but it did, and the sun is gone, and the earth is gone, and I don’t know how it happened…but it happened… and now I sit next to red flowers and I’m smoking a smoke because the table is gone and I’m sitting on the dusty wood floor and the house has been getting rather gross since I became a writer again, and I’m looking up at this painting on the wall, and it’s filled with flowers by the dozens so perfectly standing in little shops with cartoons making faces and people on the streets in Paris, and these people are talking about something with a sketch-board and kids are playing tic-tac-toe on the ground as a fake dog named Sherlock watches them, and I don’t understand why the dog even cares about the tic-tac-toe game, because it’s a dog, and I know for a fact…oh… but so what, and this isn’t a discussion; these are only questions and nothing matters, and soon I’ll be on the road again, and they took everything, I, once again…lost… everything…BUT…it’s just me and this framed possible world that for some reason is still hanging on my orange wall, and this painting is all there is left, and I’m (like always) still here, alone, and it’s the same as it’s always been, and it’s only a painting, and so why do I even care? There’s no television or no lounging and no laughing no more, and so this entertains me, because they shut-off the internet, and I think I have water for one more day, and this painting and the dust and my typewriter and my smokes; this is all I have left… because… I lost everything, again, again; I lost everything again and so that’s why, that’s the reason I keep looking at the painting, because it’s beautiful and the sun exploded today and nobody cares. The news said “it’s over” and they “were sorry about the ending”, and I said “go figure” as I sat on the ground and looked at the painting smoking like smoker smokes, and then I said “bring on the big guns” and all of this is a reflection of light, and the only thing we really are, are the reminders to distant stars.
Sometimes I remember what was never even real, and who knows how much I can even see anymore, because everything is so typical to these people who don’t care that this dog is watching these kids in this painting who are for some reason playing a tic-tac-toe game in the middle of a random street, and I don’t understand why the painting was even here, but it’s here, and it will always be here. Back, just months ago when I moved in, I was setting up shop and the painting came with the house. It’s colorful and it really brings the room to life, and that’s what I’ve been told, and so what, because I didn’t care, and we fucked on the table and then we smoked marijuana and I told them about how and when I moved in, and how the old landlord was going to throw it away, and how he told me the person who painted it was a banker who stole from the school system. I said who cares, and please leave it, because it’s a nice painting, I don’t have anything else, no décor, leave it…and still, and as it usually goes, they didn’t listen and said you don’t want it, it’s not good-looking, and I said do you understand words or not, just leave it. The landlord didn’t like me after that but he needed my money, and I could have said sorry, don’t be so sensitive, but I was mad back then and I’m mad again now, but it doesn’t really matter does it, because it’s all over, and I guess on a normal day when the sun didn’t explode this wouldn’t be so weird, but right now at this very second, right now…as I’m really giving a good ol’ long look at this painting smoking a smoke, well…I’ve noticed that one of the kids is holding a knife behind his back. This painting is nothing short of a nightmare and I did many things in this room before I realized the monster that it really is, and everyone but the landlord said that it really brings the room together, but as it turns out everyone but the landlord was wrong, because the painting is terrible, and normally I’d burn the thing after getting freaked out, but not today, because it’s over for us, and in two weeks everyone will have never existed in the first place. The sun exploded today…
And so, people always said nice place and nice painting, and they never really looked at the thing that hung on my wall, and it was just there, just like they and I were just here, and they always said you know what, this painting really brings the room together, and that’s fine that they said that, but how come they never saw the picture for what it really is, and there’s a knife and the clown isn’t doing a trick…no, the clown is on fire in the building and then look; how come nobody ever told me that there’s a person who looks like a normal person, and no but…he sort of looks like me, some kind of basic writer type, and his hands are held up and he’s looking directly out of the painting. The guy looks horrified and defeated; the painted person who looks at the outside doesn’t look to be very happy, and I don’t know why, but nobody ever said that they noticed this nonsense before, and I can’t blame anyone because I’ve never noticed either, because I thought (like they thought) and then the days brought sunlight and then darkness, and the few dozen or so people who’ve been in my house since I’ve moved here, they always walked by the painting just like I did, and so that’s normal because I walked by the painting every day and never really looked at it like I am now, and the painting is in my own house. I don’t know what was wrong with my vision. The painting was just here, and everybody always said that’s such a nice painting, and I agreed with them, because it always seemed like such a nice painting, and that’s all, it just… really brought the room together, and I said the same thing, and now look:
The painting of the two kids playing tic-tac-toe and there’s one child back there waiting for his turn. I don’t get it but the sun exploded today, and the only thing I want to know is who the hell this banker was, the man who lived in my house before I lived in my house…but…just like everything else…I guess it doesn’t really matter, because I lost everything again and so who cares about the nature of becoming better; who cares…about thinking…still…no…I never read the words at the bottom of the border where frame meets paint. I always just thought that it was just some random artist signature…wait a second…
And so standing up I walk over to the wall and the painting has a label at the bottom and it reads:
EYES DO NOT EXIST.
Adventures In American Writing 