Awake and looking at the ceiling.
Too early for work,
too useless to go back to sleep.
I creep out of bed
into the living room and throw on coffee.
Then I sit in darkness.
I sit in silence.
Stranded on the dark island of my shadow.
Mouth dry from last night’s bottle of wine.
Head kind of aches.
Price I pay.
I peer out of the window
at houses of neighbors I don’t know.
Empty. Unfulfilling. Dark. Mysterious.
Why don’t they ever come outside?
Modernity is bullshit, I think.
Like anthems and pledges.
Tedious rules to kill the self
and hypnotize the mind.
Street lights are still glowing,
illuminating flying insects looking for warmth.
Aren’t we all? I think.
Manicured lawns like a grey canvas
under the gloomy sky.
Thoughts arise when the sun is hidden,
and they’re vivid at this time of morning.
Childhood memories seem like yesterday.
That dreary state that holds my idyllic youth
It’s all so strange.
The moonlight spills upon my carpet,
I can hear the trees whisper outside.
Fear also spills in at these desolate hours.
It’s amazing how time dictates our emotions.
Time, what curse and blessing.
What is time?
Kant says it’s eternal.
It’s all a great illusion.
I think he’s on to something.
I hear the sound of the house settling,
changing the mode of my thoughts.
Are we meant to settle?
Isn’t settling for the dead?
Pondering every fiber of existence.
Am I raising my kid’s right?
Will I ever find greatness?
Why the fuck did I do that last week.
Visions of Johanna parades my brain.
Sad eyed lady of the lowlands follows.
I grab a smoke and head outside.
Stars. Moon. Eternity.
Dead leaves scurrying down bleak sidewalks.
Jealous winds looking for redemption.
I think its time for an adventure,
comes to mind as I take a deep drag.
Maybe another tattoo.
Silence Exile Cunning.
I heard JFK smoked weed in the White House
while sleeping with an actress.
At the same time.
What a character.
All presidents are liars,
I can’t believe people still vote.
Cannery Row. What a novel.
Damn, I love Steinbeck.
Mack had the secret to life, I do believe.
We need more Macks.
What the hell happen to music?
Mexico is where I should reside.
The people seem to be more free,
and less depressed and on meds.
There goes my out of control Romanticism again.
Ladies sitting on bar stools crossed legged
with heels dangling from toes.
They know their true power.
God’s most beautiful creation,
Speaking of God.
Where does the soul really go when one dies?
Is there even a soul?
Maybe our brain has created the idea of a soul?
Wonder if God can create a rock so heavy that even He couldn’t pick it up?
Can He create a human smarter than him?
No? Then I guess He can’t do everything.
If He’s all-knowing why did He change His mind so often in the Scriptures?
I think I love Spinoza’s god the best.
Their god was more peaceful and less personal.
Didn’t have infanticidal tendencies, either.
I’m so grateful for Tolstoy, too.
He reminded us that the Kingdom of God is within.
Just like all the great teachers.
Jesus. Buddha. Mohammad. Zoroaster.
Most miss the metaphor, I believe.
Why the hell did Hemingway blow his head off?
And Hunter Thompson for that matter?
I wish Joseph Campbell was still alive,
I have more questions.
How the hell did Kerouac write that novel in three weeks?
Flannery O’Connor. Carson McCullers.
What haunting female novelists.
Damn, shake out of it.
Man, how the darkness brings such sporadic thoughts,
It’s the time of day when you’re spiritually refreshed.
Alone and awake in an unconscious world.
Pure. Naked. Vulnerable. Human. Divine.
It brings the self into an almost sublime state,
if you take advantage of it.
Entirely depleted of needs.
What blissful paradise,
as close to perfection as possible.
Right back to the doorstep of Eden,
you’ll have to convince the cherubs to let you back in, though.
Them bastards, with their flaming swords.
Alarm clock rattles in the back room.
I get dressed in yesterdays work clothes.
Grab a banana and head out the door.
What a circus.