GUITAR LESSON

I've got my mittens on.  We continue to believe each other, go on. Stimulate points. You are more nice than wise. An empty chest.

Appearance’s sake is out of focus. Colors and figures confused. Why all the whispering?  She’s out of sight now.

Wait for the right shot. She ran to the corner store with her pallor and pillow, asking to rest.

I won’t tell you what really happened. There was a shipwreck. And mush, a pattern. In search of wholeness, trying to turn into someone. How happy does it make me? Work backwards. 

She read her statement (nothing to do with you). It was thick. Is that what she intended? Her death was questionable. She got up again. Truth as a useful supplement. Her heels sunk in wet sand.

Eat, breathe. You are right to crave, apologize, cry. Drink. A prayer is offered, hymns sung. Still uncertain. Are you out there? Gone?

Am I jealous of you? A lightweight, a misplaced teenager. I know more, I know better. The air tastes sweet, syrupy, stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Alfred told me I was accessible. He didn’t think it was insulting to say so. He teaches people how to listen to music. He fell in love with a student over Petrarca’s sonnets. They had a bad ending. Everyone’s horny. Throw me over your leg. She sneered at the poet’s nostalgia. 

I’ve started to wonder about friendship and what it means to grow apart. Move on, over The Delaware. My friends are worried about me. I hardly like them.  I hardly like myself. I like making lists. Be kind. Breathe. Don’t drink the water. Don’t listen to them. Balthus. Why did I stop taking pictures? Dead fields.

There are infants to take care of, needing and pleading, mainly myself. I’m addicted to medical dramas. I wish I could finish the Golden Bowl. I’m standing on a hill where Romans are drinking and bathing. I’d like to be refined—in a refinery—wrung out. Watch your step. Replenish the source within. Will I sound smarter in ten years or just more lonesome?

You can hear the train, but you can’t see it. I’m locked in the bathroom, hiding. I thought I could get away with it. Why won’t you take me?

I have no conception of light. Night all day long. Sex. My stomach rumbles. I should be grateful, happy. Alfred tells me to move beyond myself. He’s moving his hand up my thigh. This is wrong. I could be sleeping. I have to call someone and tell them what I’ve done. Don’t you know how long it takes to drill through granite? 

I’ve never organized my sock drawer or received hate mail. The trip is centrifugal. I lie. It’s the wine and the fact you make me nervous. I’m waking up now. It’s time to go. Everyone’s waiting. Don’t ruin it for them. I’ve got high hopes, so the trees break my fall. I’ve got my snowshoes on. Follow the airways. Just words.

Theater of the Absurd (New Fox Gameshow by Samuel Beckett)