Solitary Confinement and The Mystery of a Well-Crafted Sentence

18 Sep

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Solitary Confinement and The Mystery of a Well-Crafted Sentence

(for all the prisoners)

 

 

            This story will be a bag of oranges falling to the floor.

            This story will be colored by the same cerulean waking as a last vacation morning.

            This story will be about a woman I once loved.

            But I will not be the hero. I will refuse that honor to someone else, someone that doesn’t write because he doesn’t need to. He will be average: of average build, average intellect, a slightly above-average bank account. No bad habits: while I drink enough whiskey to turn my blood flammable, he will remain sober and uninformed, no B1 supplement to keep his liver running; who needs to run when you can pace?

            Someone innocently left their wine glass on the tabletop for much too long. A crimson, oval stain remained. A secondhand (the nationalist amongst no nations barking) and wholly uninvited writer writes about it in a manner resembling a gift that kept on giving, despite having already made a hoarder out of you, the  reader; with room to breathe slowly ebbing off into the ether, he then decides to contrive an addendum to the detail, tying this mauve haloed blemish to a long dead Russian realist. He does his best to deprecate the other author, though he himself relates to the dead realist merely with the minute literary tangentiality akin to the manner in which bathroom limericks relate to Shakespeare.

            The janitorial service and I will remain here mopping all of it up. We, who were always fond of the Dark Lady sonnets, especially – but you would know that if you were familiar with my work.

            Anyway,

            I have grown tired of all these cruel women.

            Leave them. Leave them. Leave them for the heroes of the story. They are headaches for the protagonists, not the tertiary characters like me. My royalty rate can’t afford to jewel their tiaras, all I can do, maybe, is a used copy of The Princess Bride on DVD, bought downtown at J&R before it goes out of business again.

            Or maybe instead of a presence,

            I will instead become like a literary version of hydrofluoric acid: I will have all my characters melt inside of me. That sounds immensely comforting somehow.

            Firmament to terra firma is in a single bag of heroin, as long as they don’t cut the shit out of it as it changes hands, but a cruel woman can kill you more gracefully, and much quicker, than that fall.

             My little homey once asked me why the coke always makes him shit, to which I informed him that it’s likely because cocaine is casually cut with baby laxatives nowadays. He snorted another line in the bathroom stall and nodded, “shit, dog – you must be right”.

            Lenny once told me that they (whomever these magical they are) don’t let a woman kill you in the tower of song. So, it’s a tower, huh?! I fucking hate climbing.

            An unkindness of ravens watches me from across my window. Better than owls. A parliament of owls. Much too much screeching. The ravens remain silent. Only six of them, as though they travelled like crows.

            There’s too much time in these moments, and far too many of them, they leave you grasping for ways to remain, sane and trudging along, collecting memoirs, becoming but a sketch of a human being that suffuses the narrative strip.

            The truth is, they’d tell you to go to hell, but they never want to see you again.

            Another drink and the floor is lined with fallen citrus. The smell reminds you of a film, and of how easy it is to disappear into the credits. The birds are watching.

            The azure light seems electric and reviving, but eventually you know it will become the neon glow turned off soon after the amicable barmaids announce last call. Afterwards, you might think that you’re walking out into a new morning, but really this is just a story, and I hope that by all the gods that have ever existed or have ever been conjured up by good intentions, that you don’t become the hero of it. Because, as a hero, yes, you might have a bed to share, but it is one that will soon grow cold, as soon as the last sentence is written well.

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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