A Continental Nightmare

It was the middle of the day, high noon, amid a canyon, atop a red rock. Everything was on dusty scripts in Cherokee and Navajo, it was heeling a Mexican extravaganza. It was a fantastic reverie, an irreverent fantasy, it was whatever begets a distinction from archaic routine. I had been revived by the spirit of my new friend, a proper stranger. He was young and fazed by how much you have to know to make it through a day or the day teaches in consequences and not lessons. He had multiple dependencies. Multiple. Excessive. It was like a collection of pizzazz and horror that circled back to a point where beginning to fix anything was stunted by how many ideas you can lose in the middle of a sentence. I had borrowed his caravan to blast myself in a desert. I was always verging on death, never doing it. He didn’t let me crash but he died himself. I’m waiting still to decide whether or not I should dream my destruction or lash out like an emotive genius…

In all honesty, to live a fast life is to be quick and telling your time and being smart to edit gruesome reality and even mundane unreality- not all thoughts are begging Bukowski. I gazed blankly at the urges and battles of the mind-give in to one. It’s tormenting. Every problem you have is because you can’t escape yourself- you’re always thinking like yourself, you’re talking like yourself, you’re being yourself. Who are you if not yourself? And if you are yourself, are you succinct and sufficient? Death is your only physiological and philosophical escape, your pessimistic friend, your bad end.  Does not being alive help? Nobody will tell, nobody knows, and yet everybody’s waiting. Waiting in life, for life. To be something, to have someone, to get better.

It’s all the wrong places of the heart. Of hearts. My heart, your heart. I have shivered myself down through. In colloquialism I do not please myself, my toleration on this earth is to please the unfamiliar, to expand myself onto the world. Slight remembrances are my most productive probabilities for a carrying onward after my passing through the hands of a heavenly hand to seep through the African Medina.

34 thoughts on “A Continental Nightmare

  1. I feel like the hieroglyphics we see in persons are somehow written on the soul. I find myself forever searching to see evidence of something…like I matter somehow to them. Strange comment I know I’m surrounded by Cherokees and search a lot for more. They are so silent…so I have to trust my spirit.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Back in form, Poet! A selfish way of saying that you made room for us to breathe a short while with you.

    Is this the first time you have someone else in your text? Or am I mistaken? Even if that person is far less mature than you and is a harbinger of death.

    I mention this only because, even if you are generous with your co-poets on the web, you are alone in your work. This may be unavoidable for a poet. I don’t know.

    The phrase ‘Slight remembrances are my most productive probabilities for a carrying onward’ is a remarkable phrase, Poet.

    It appears that we live not only by bread alone and with our lived experiences but also by reason of a memory which accompanies us and which we have not ourselves lived. It seems to be an attribute of our consciousness. Without acknowledging and ‘using’ which we would all be dead, young, like your friend.

    This is the poetic insight above all others. Nor am I making this up, Poet. I have been reading The Half-Finished Heaven, poems of the Swedish Tomas Transtromer who left only 250 pages and each one a proof of this single poetic insight. And he is just the latest of my readings to provide proof of this.

    That is how I know that you are a poet, Poet. How did you get there? I’d congratulate you except, as you know, poetic insigt is nothing that you did or earned. A gift received. So glad you are honing the expression if it; and polishing it and putting it out here. This text is outstanding.

    Sarah

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Upon a second transcontinental reading, needing an irreverent
    fantasy, I swear I could hear as
    clear as a bell the toll from an
    ancient Wall of Voodoo . . . 😎

    I’m on a mexican radio
    I wish I was in Tiajuana
    Eating barbequed iguana
    I’d take requests on the telephone
    I’m on a wavelength far from home
    I feel a hot wind on my shoulder
    I dial it in from south of the border
    I hear the talking of the dj
    Can’t understand just what does he say?

    Liked by 1 person

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