Baseball is killing my TV life.
If I'm lucky, work winds down around eight, and if everything goes well I'm usually home by nine.  At this point it's anybody's guess.  First, a little punishment for the years I've neglected my body, favoring the slow unsettling of the hypocrite brew to the strict, athletic regimen that was handed down to me by that bald cadet officer at Lourdes whose name I can't recollect.  After the lights go out I fix myself an already late supper, and eat in complete darkness.   I take forever to finish.  Food of late has become poison in my system, collapsing my chest at the oddest, most inopportune moments; imbalancing the chi, making my nose bleed, robbing me of vitality, ruining my carefully knotted tie.

I wait and wait for the damned playoffs to be done, and after that's an entire hour of slop that nobody listens to anymore. Somebody's junker gets jacked, a slight touch of porcelain weaving sugarcrumb lace. Somebody's crappy stereo goes on 
sale tomorrow, enough cash for a full pipe. By then if I'm still awake I try to keep up for the Irishman.  But right at the cusp of when  I feel that it's coming on, like the northbound redline, I lose it.  Slips outta my grasp like those one-eyed fish at the Veldt.  I fall into dreamtime: I talk in my sleep and dream in code. And wake up in the morning, a metallic taste in my mouth - feeling displaced, like I'm missing out on some important holiday.  Another day's got its headstart, rabid like an Aussie, leaving me behind. I'm already late for work.

You are not your clothes.

Real soon, I have to quit smoking.
Nothing gives a better argument than day-old stale cigarettes.  Acrid, unpleasant, barely burning.  A little more than a twig staining your teeth, reeking of wet tabloid plastered on the street.  One, two, by third drag you’re wanting a thorough Listerine.  No washroom nearby.  Second option; reach for that brittle stick of gum that’s been stuck to the back pocket of your day-a-week jeans.  Every day for a whole week, pencil shavings, diner mayonnaise, dry wall caulking.  Overtaxed epidermis. Those pants develop their own stink.

It started Thursday.  I didn’t wanna show my face.  Gentleman junkie with this cracked fake smile and scraggly rodent whiskers.  Thirty-five cents for a disposable.  I stayed for overtime, pandering for a few more side projects, (the phone was a monster) hitting the keys without rhythm.  Just this once I couldn’t blame the caffeine.  Reassert the macho thing, stay away from the virtues of soap and shaving cream.  It comes at you with surprising speed.  Silent, deadly like heartburn oddly insistent in the morning.  Been quite a while since I’ve had anything decent. I’ve been wearing the same things. Three days and still going at it. Hobo-gonna be all that you see.  Cut me, I definitely bleed smoke.

You are not the contents of your wallet.

The voiceover was missing.
All the way at the far end, Russian girl who usually mans the sputterpop was absent.  Teenagers stricken with vacuous consumption, ambiguous couples ensconced in latent hysteria. I saunter past unmindful, careless bravado. Dendrites, synapses, and sweat trickling down stripped eyebrows. The gun in his mouth, only vowels. Midsection was blurred. It wasn't the half-year prescriptions building up lachrymal protein residue. This last time I came prepared. Noting important details with ballpoint snagged from greasy countertop. No joke, just plain boredom. A nic-fit insisted, coffin nail purring in my pocket. Slow, meaningfully I paused by the triple section. Die Jahrtausendfeier ends with a flock of sixes; numbers are upside down in your sleep. She smiles hello at me, recognition dawning. Double doors push lever, hollow clicking. My little nephew barely knew me as I reached down to hug him. White-knuckle wind starts up. Business card exchange. It's gotten so much colder. Store's still open. Habitual fiver, dime back with the single. 

"How are things?", we small talk few empty seconds. There's nothing else here.
Red for full stop, green to follow. Same as this shirt that's been rumpled for weeks, downy-saturated incandescent yellow. I'm not the least bit hungry. Gas station, pint-sized customer friendly Desi fellow stocking up Abram non-filters. "My friend", familiar shoulder tap probably takes care of eight ounces. Mix it up equal parts frog vanilla, mule chocolate, 100 percent Euro. Sugar with a touch of machine-ground foam, my tongue turns acrobatic. Traditional sarong gave me the curious once-over, wondering how far it'll take. Another evening yours truly, slim zenlike stoic. The black plastic boxes we must recycle, the city tells us. How's this for compliance, stacked side by side in modular fashion. Keep an eye out for jaywalking pedestrians. 
Please be seated, you already know half the script.

You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake.

there is nothing on the screen. disregard the nocturnal signals. 
pay no attention to the mind that remains restless. everybody else is asleep.

boil 12 ounces for the last packet of brown powder. take it out of the room along with your cigarettes. 
crack the window open. sigh with discontent at the wind that howls out your name.

your mind is a sieve. language is the filter you’ve chosen to aid memory. 
there are no words to describe the separation. more is less: this is no time to think.

footsteps in darkness are audible past midnight. next door someone cries out in their dreams.
the light blinks once or twice in silent secret. you have finally figured out the rest of what it means.

have no remorse at the least of your worries. material objects possess no spirit.
this life is temporary in its fragile beauty. therefore less is more, but you can hardly feel it.

(changeover)

Not everybody can churn out a tune with just three strings. 
Somewhere was a past life that wanted to climb out and just sit with him for a few more seconds. The metro arrives. I’ll probably see him in dreamtime. 

Velocity shrill metal and plastic carriage we descend unto the gray dimlit underbelly of the street. Streets in the city have strange names. Were the natives restless with impending angry god musing or merely bored with precaution? Your tag bare on the side, encrusted subterranean fluorescent inadequate. Suppressing even the most grateful smiles, winsome weekend cheer lurking, covered ears piped-in tunes sweep away dreary mundane Tuesday. The rumbling sway distraction of the next stop. Doors are closing the snooze button of conductor’s mantra. I can glean your face from here. A softened reflection on the other side of the glass. Lift your head I’m on the left. No signs tell where it is we’ve gotten lost again. 
I can see your chockablock house from here.

Somewhere else I have a newer version.

Do I have it in me to continue?

“Propaganda”, the man in the corner spoke.
The streetlight glancing off his glasses spun small sparks in the dark of the glass cube.  Faced with the prospect of losing another argument his mustache quivered with every other drag.  Maybe a smile forming in the recesses of his whiskers, the cynical bastard. Cool girl Eighties pageboy hair bothers for a second.  Cast-off fatigues with duck print camo nonchalant dust with fine flicks of ash. Dollar theater after regular run. The hidden philosophy in a recent movie hotly contested, whether of artifice or romance.  Machinery strips the soul from an erstwhile love story.  Put me down for eighty-one, some guy near Mister Black gesticulates. Don’t make me raise my tone again.  He sees you’ve got tricks up your raglan sleeve, said plainly without twitches. Invisible without portents, it begins with silence and feathers falling.

This body is assigned sanctity. The resolution of our lives hangs at stake. Consider with care the following: the basic unit of acceptance is an open hand. The first action performed with the mouth is a word that we’ve given meaning to. The motion is unobstructed. The tongue is a myriad collection of veins depending on the tautness or slack of muscle to produce sounds that may or may not provide meaning. Is this another riddle leading to the conclusion you’ve been unable to figure? Dissect the outer layers to get to the meat of the matter. This is the gist of language. These lessons were important in our youth. The question in all this confusion: Where am I coming from? Get ready for this one.

Infatuation is infection.

With rebellious flair we escaped the typhoon-ready chickenwire of another dreary midweek. Algorithms versus Catholic schoolgirl playing same game hooky. Easier than easy mac give away clues, take your pick of celebrity. Cove in question was a nook behind the Franciscan confessional. Monument to the conquerors proudly sitting on man-made hill with oval drive-through leading to a busy city intersection.  Every afternoon for the past two weeks she puts a cigarette between my lips. Breathe through the stick, try not to think too much of it. The worst taste ever in my virgin mouth. 

“This isn’t working, is it?” plain as the wrinkled nose on my face signing away disgust. We try to think of something else while she puns with smoke rings, smaller into bigger disappearing. Child’s play for someone who learned how to when she was twelve.  Trinket of chocolate warming in a pocket, grimy thumb peeling away layers like dead skin. In the old country Autumn makes trees shed their final tears. Faerie wonder these moondrops turn into kaleidoscope colors. Slight breeze whilst twilight approaches flutters cricket twigs, makes the prism sing. It’s an old man’s tale of a non-existent Winter in some parts I’ve not yet seen. Heads tingle, cheeks turn slight pink. She grabs my collar and breathes her elfin grin.

“Here’s how we’ll do this”, she trips the popkin into my mouth. Better hurry, before the sweet runs down your chin. A joke in the making, we’ll try it again. This time she whispers, don’t lose it. The gun blue slithering into my nose and sugar on my teeth. A fountain, coolness. Thanks for the new trick, Kate. The bus is here, she turns and packs her things. Hurry up and finish this one. Peas in a pod I match her eyes’ twinkle in mine. That was some ten years ago. And as much as I can in trying to quit the filthy habit I can't seem to forget that day. When it all started. Now, ten years later it's still here with me, calling. Knowing. Please return your seats to their upright position.

Familiarity breeds contempt.

I’m restored from a moment’s headblind reverie. Porcine snort of wry humor from the man in the corner, the missing punchline. How many times has he begrudged me a smoke out here by the lanterns? Beady eyes of a sniveling criminal he nods ever so slightly. No question I reach for it. Filter held by the tips of grubby fingers. Chemical stains, gloves are too costly. My shirt says it all: hard work and little pay, sixteen hours a day. On the other hand Mister Black can afford to wear his dress shoes even while just slumming. Put your leg up on any damn chair you want to, huff and puff. I permit myself the luxury of taxing my lungs only so often. And I have to put up with crap like this? Never really learned my lesson, in the dry hacking cough of the odd 3 AM. Waking up with a start like a dead man jackknifing from gravedust. Motes cloud your eye. Throat gunked with ragged cotton. Mouth wide open no sound comes. You cross a point where knowing the bad serves no purpose except to nag. It’s all the same, choose your poison.

The eyebrow affirmation, I reach out and sound grateful. Another favor I seemingly owe you, bon soir. Priority the temporary satiation of the demon she planted in me, and some peace of mind. For the nocturnal bony handshake Mister Black offers me. Cut off from sleep, shuddering from the capricious infestation. How many hours until the sun graces our gloomy parlor? Lookalike fireflies these lit sticks make. And the pile of ash I collect in the branches of my chest. I fell into a trap of my own making. My body tells me it may be time to finish. But the chocolate haunts, and the smoke soothes every so often. I have nothing to thank her for. I owe you nothing, mister.

Posted 07 13 2000 (c) copyrights owned by kueixin. Last updated 04 05 +1.
Chuck Palahniuk's book and the movie may have had something to do with it.

Action item list:

o  Get certified.
o  Get some sleep.
o  Learn how to make soap.

A few insights into the mind of the man, interviewed in separate occassions by Jayne Margetts for Between The Lines 
and Emily Jenkins of the Village Voice. In the meantime - click here for other useful bits from Tyler. Watch this space 
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