Drunk journal rant 1995

trip— well of course there’s blood and the belligerent truck path. Fingers on the moon— draped slivers breathing hot and syrupy. If I were that artist on the hill and shifting like road bends— impressionistic like light on water— half chewed straw, incomplete like the bay’s mouth and the silver moon through our windows. I hate the in between— such borrowed shoes and calm unanalyzed wishes and “ninety four fucking miles!” and yet there’s this----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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nothing between

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these lines, stupid.

 

 

You can feel the addiction— the first touch. The new pleasure. The warmth in the ice. The cold in the fire. The sincerity of the illusion. The ragged brutish clown who entertains and makes us laugh. The hot fires of cold ice flame the addiction. Too much to think about. Do I want your sympathy? Do I want your love? Your worship? Alcoholism? Can’t I just have some control over my life? Even just a little? I feel as though I will die soon. I forbid it, not before my baby, my creation, my art form is done as my young mind comprehends it to be finished. I will die of angry cancer. Maybe a violent drunken death or too much sex. Aid me, someone— perhaps I will see reality through change. Perhaps not.

 

How much truth in near drunken narration? Or in sobriety? Seems I write under this illusory spell than I do, unhindered by whiskey. Born to do good but dead to act upon it. At least until, May 22, when things seemed to be in control. Now the keyboard is too small beside the half gallon bottle of whiskey. Change you change you change you, Mr. liver sclerosis— and who the fuck are you anyway? Ghosts flapping their sheets. Shadows cursing the sidewalk before me. Clouds borrowing my perspiration to rain on happy folks. What is going on? I don’t know how to deal with SHIT anymore. Can’t I just be free? Maybe January 11^th will open the door. And where the fuck is my glass?

 

And to answer your question— I don’t know why I do the things I do. All through the afternoon; still unsolved wound on my face. A round clotted dot— like a cigar burn. A scrape from drunken fall or punch from jealous husband. I know not. Too much to drink, certainly. I am compelled to wonder about that word, certainly, but more to the point, its origin, certain. I am not certain.