Story of a Diary

I, a penury-gifted snuff-film screenwriter & part-time legal proofreader, of sane mind and warily possessing passingly excellent  command of crossed-arms, wound-up-European-style language and Java-fueled conference-conjugal-room-speakerphone-jargon, have wanted to ask very few things from life and wanted even less to be troubled to make a list or a purpose or a purposive proposive list naming, first and foremost for most, the very few objects of my desire I have, considering my intellectually spiritual material poverty, neglected, too late now, for even life's expectedly silent close-captioned response, to ask.  But today, the darkly governmental day my girlfriend left me to go back to her Lithuanian husband with whom I share all physical traits except teeth and posture and crow's feet, has brought my failure directly into my heart with the speed and force of a 5 yr old girl sweetly handing me a mustard-stained crayon drawing of a last game of hangman I'd forgotten I'd agreed to play.

At a certain coffeeshop in which I used to attend watching sexually desirable female students concentrating intently on writing queer and feminist informed revisionary theses on Henry James and Ernest Hemingway, the floor was scuffed, divoted concrete leftover unimproved from the garage it used to be.

About halfway thru the store, near the creamer stand, the floor imperceptibly arose on a gentle incline such that returning from my cigarette on the pation, I always ended up scuffing my feet and stumbling due to my ape-lazy gait which hardly bothered to lift my feet more than 1/2 of a 1/2 inch  when locomoting.  If the way one walks thru life is shadowed, like those Jesus footprints on the beach one sees in Protestant homes, by the way one walks to get Doritos or condoms from the nearest Golden Pantry, then I have wasted my life on dragging feet.

But now I shall begin to name the things I want in life.  Though I tend to have wildly, balloon-animal inflated notions of my own literacy, I want my own personal, full-hipped & buxom bullshit inspector, a candy-apple love to call me out on & with my candycorn shit, a cotton-candy love to ground me to the earth like a prison-guard-parent taking away my car keys and hiding them in the ballasting sandbag weighing down the hot air balloon of my prided fast-food-value-menu-investment-expertise.

I want distinction and want it to come to me at a time wherein I can fool myself into believing I already had it, the distinction of choosing a wine I carefully researched and consequently being commended by those who've done their research on my exquisite taste and pairing abilities.  I distinctly want to subscribe to a magazine called Distinction which I can hide under an H&K 9 mm in each glove compartment of my 23 BMWs and 47 Mini Coopers, each one painted as a 3rd world nation's flag or American microbrewery logo.  I want to vomit hope for the afterlife somewhat unexpectedly.  I want work more interesting than a modest, postapocalyptic TV movie.  I want to ask bold children dying of obvious malnutrition, "Are you a drug addict? If so, do you believe in America?  Do you believe in America by looking for work?"  I want my mouth to distend in exaggerated shock and output singlehandedly the highest annual per capita output of elections of any country in the blonde, kaput-scratched stubble of the squeezed round cheeks of the world.

I want to weather Transhumanist enthusiasm with eyes-wide as a Hurricane the size of Jupiter descending red-eyed and overcaffeinated to Earth to rip it apart with floods and winds raping and impregnating its swans with the phrase "That's-not-strictly-true" raining acid cats and dogs like backasswards gods.

I want to go to the bathroom.  I want a kindly international hand to fall to the floor between my face and my fear, to fall like a sofa full of lost quarters and used needles, to fall like a rain of sofas offering with disgust their soft-comfort.

I want you to extend a toe and pull the entrepreneurial page to me.

To the familiar hour which adjusts under the ceiling of warning, let the specifics get their own tickets.  Working a knot of pain, the fastidious windows shall look less real unhelped by sighs, and somebody will come to the door, having made themselves clear.