11-25 7:47 AM Tu
Maybe I need some counseling. I fucking left my copy of Tropic of Cancer at the elementary school where I teach Adult Ed. I don't know my own heart. In my dream she aligned herself with three dark people, one flicked out a forked serpent's tongue. I awoke agonized, wounded. Hour later the feeling remains, like I swallowed broken glass.
What'll I do at lunch? Go home and puff? I could go for a good drunk. Talk some good long drunk talk to some drunk strangers, preferable a woman.
11-26 W 11:45 AM
How can I get out of work tonight? I'm kicking my own ass. I said all that crazy shit. I have to say to find out if it's true. You can't read Henry Miller while Mary Poppins is on.
12-1 M 8:07 AM
I look into the cars driving by as I walk down the street. I see from the faces that I am not alone in going to work with a broken heart. Red maple leaves splotch the sidewalk like blood. Maples in Los Angeles. I wonder if sending letters will do any good. Leave anonymous gifts on her doorstep. Or do I just move on? To Shirelle Buthole with undying love and deepest apologies-- God, what do I do? Didn't I fuckup something good? Or would she have walked all over me? I suddenly don't care, but last night it tortured me again. I couldn't sleep. I looked through old journals for Shirelle references. They were about fucking or me complaining about her. The best ones are about things we did together. June 11, 1993, she and I went to see Jurassic Park. I must send out traffic school forms today. Bennington e-mailed me about a missing Microsoft program. The bell just rang. Recess is over. Time to teach a math lesson. I don't feel like a good teacher lately. Fred gave me a piece of pizza. I ate it at recess. I skipped breakfast. I thought I would fast, starve myself to express my abject depression. At lunch I'll read Tropic of Cancer. Then we have some science questions to write answers to. Then we'll play some handball. Then I'll read to them. Then I'll walk home and do my desk work, bills, traffic school, etc., I'll take a nap or write a letter to Shirelle. She really was a big part of my life, my closest friend. I have to do that deskwork before I fall asleep. I couldn't sleep at all last night. My knuckles hurt from banging on Shirelle's door. They called the sheriff on me. They wouldn't let me in because some guy was in there with her. She has lied to me again. I sob quietly on the phone when she finally calls. You can tell from the tone of her voice how hard her heart is toward me now. Four years mean nothing. In four weeks, four years are gone. She wakes up one day and no longer loves me. Not even a month ago she waited in my room in the dark, waiting to kill the bitch she thought I was out with. The girl loved me so insanely and I didn't see how rare and great a thing that was. I only coveted our practical differences.
Maybe I need some counseling. I fucking left my copy of Tropic of Cancer at the elementary school where I teach Adult Ed. I don't know my own heart. In my dream she aligned herself with three dark people, one flicked out a forked serpent's tongue. I awoke agonized, wounded. Hour later the feeling remains, like I swallowed broken glass.
What'll I do at lunch? Go home and puff? I could go for a good drunk. Talk some good long drunk talk to some drunk strangers, preferable a woman.
11-26 W 11:45 AM
How can I get out of work tonight? I'm kicking my own ass. I said all that crazy shit. I have to say to find out if it's true. You can't read Henry Miller while Mary Poppins is on.
12-1 M 8:07 AM
I look into the cars driving by as I walk down the street. I see from the faces that I am not alone in going to work with a broken heart. Red maple leaves splotch the sidewalk like blood. Maples in Los Angeles. I wonder if sending letters will do any good. Leave anonymous gifts on her doorstep. Or do I just move on? To Shirelle Buthole with undying love and deepest apologies-- God, what do I do? Didn't I fuckup something good? Or would she have walked all over me? I suddenly don't care, but last night it tortured me again. I couldn't sleep. I looked through old journals for Shirelle references. They were about fucking or me complaining about her. The best ones are about things we did together. June 11, 1993, she and I went to see Jurassic Park. I must send out traffic school forms today. Bennington e-mailed me about a missing Microsoft program. The bell just rang. Recess is over. Time to teach a math lesson. I don't feel like a good teacher lately. Fred gave me a piece of pizza. I ate it at recess. I skipped breakfast. I thought I would fast, starve myself to express my abject depression. At lunch I'll read Tropic of Cancer. Then we have some science questions to write answers to. Then we'll play some handball. Then I'll read to them. Then I'll walk home and do my desk work, bills, traffic school, etc., I'll take a nap or write a letter to Shirelle. She really was a big part of my life, my closest friend. I have to do that deskwork before I fall asleep. I couldn't sleep at all last night. My knuckles hurt from banging on Shirelle's door. They called the sheriff on me. They wouldn't let me in because some guy was in there with her. She has lied to me again. I sob quietly on the phone when she finally calls. You can tell from the tone of her voice how hard her heart is toward me now. Four years mean nothing. In four weeks, four years are gone. She wakes up one day and no longer loves me. Not even a month ago she waited in my room in the dark, waiting to kill the bitch she thought I was out with. The girl loved me so insanely and I didn't see how rare and great a thing that was. I only coveted our practical differences.
Labels: Lowlife LA Literature
posted by johnz at 6:09 PM
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