He accidentally turned on the ceiling fan, as opposed to the light that really wanted him to turn it on as well as his need to have it on, and then pissed all around the bowl and the floor, dripping down his pants unsightly; never once did a drop splash in the floatable serene and medical blue of the bowl’s waters that stood still in contrast to his stagger and inevitable swaying penis.

He thought of Brahms and that dismissed anything of such integrity and dignity as most of a wash could be found in a puddle of piss so unsightly.

Something could wrap the day up in the break of day, with the smell of fresh tar from a road project that never seemed to finish. A metallic taste in his mouth, as if pennies ferruled into nickels that had spawned quarters and left him tasting tin.

Violin music does something to a man. It leaves him barren, holding his genitals in one hand and relinquishing his soul with a gentle farewell into another. He screams deep into a night, so deep that it breaks a young lover and her favorable fancy of what the breaking should be. It leaves her barren in Nebraska nights, dwelling on the dawn of an age that she could not feel even if she were naked, out by the fuzz in four dimensions of never mind and forewarned meaning of yesteryear’s memory.

A gypsy rhythm that shook his pelvis to and fro, as he wavered into the living room and beyond. To the window that shed so much light unto the living space, making little shadow people of branch and twig jitter and gyrate about in a ritual of changing solar wiggle.

He plumped and pushed and pimped his fat ass down onto a couch seat and in doing so realized how damp he had become in his disillusionment with reality; his disconnect. His pants were so wet that we wondered, in a matter of fact manner, whether or not anything had actually made the bowl or not. He debated a sandwich and then decided against it as he thought of lust for images long not touchable and got an erection. The surrounding fabric, that cushioned his saturated fat ass, wished that he would get up and move due to the stink and stank of ammonia flare up and all that may be implied by the smell of hot piss growing cold on the short legs of a full grown man well unaware of his own demise and destruction; a licking, lustful, lewd glimpse at what could be in a club featuring rawhide and the ‘tower’.

He turned towards the stained glass panel of vision that hung so elegantly in the frame just beneath the door frame and a speck before the outline of the vestibule. The light cascaded in a way that made the doorway seem ethereal and the room almost heaven-like. He knew of nothing else; the stink added a glowing red-yellow that could actually make the air smell like lead solder if one put his mind to it.

“Anyone else want some of this ham sandwich or box of clams?”

No one heard. His toes jiggled and gyrated about with a sense of prowess only found in political candidates pinning up to the machine for a bit more funds in order to progress on the ‘right track’ to what they would want to achieve; this was nothing like the race that his mind had fought for decades, maybe even millennia, depending on what sort of faith or spirituality or, whatever the kids were calling it these days, he had. His toes seemed to levitate above the ottoman in a way that would make most 8mm recorder junkies jiggle with the anticipation of getting their YouTube moment in some fetish room regarding metaphysics and dependency wrapped up in the Saran of existentialism. Somewhere Kierkegaard was crying.

It all was easier with windows, with light. It is what provided the outside influence of reality check that was needed in order to recognize that some things, most things, were not right. They all were wrong in a dilapidated sort of naval explosion, liver melt-down, bleeding gut sort of way.

Vietnam had come to mind a few times and with it brought blood and opiates and face paint and more blood and formaldehyde and blood and tunnels and blood and MoTown and blood. To think that Phil Spector was doing what he did with his ‘groovy hair’ in his day and age of it not being so ‘groovy’ and all the while he had lead in a body part or two that led to Phil being able to be free, to be free, and the toilet seat was still dry but the floor was not. The piss shone back up in a reflected jaundice shade that reminded cheese that it was not the only yellow thing on Earth. Surfers from around the globe that had chased the dragon far too fast and kissed the lips of too many libations made note of what colour was not cool to paint their surfboards or their shorts, board shorts that is; the ones that hang low beyond the knee and make fun of Hawaiian flowers with their popularity.

He crippled himself with a sultry powder filled and covered with the lust of the morning and what could have been before the expectations raised to what they were when the hot steam hit him in the leg, much to his denial. He scratched a beard that was not there and wished he could tickle a beard of a different kind.

Something came together as he shot himself reading Salinger.

‘Nine Stories’ can do that to a man in the brightness of his day sewn together with sunrises and sunsets and the dawn and dusk cluster fucking their way into an incestuous hillbilly revival.

Some days it is easier to pretend that there is no one else. That Charon is home.

Cold, cold, indeed.

It has been so cold in the humidity of it all that the contradiction makes one limp and shudder. He cries, solemnly, into a neckerchief that he will later use to clean up what may have been a life or a mess or something other in a wreck of perversion found only by the walls that watch.

Brahms plays on and the piss stinks.

His halcyon can not be found; the morphine is gone.

Cry, cry.

Wipe the sweat from your brow, for we are not him.