nothingness is something we create because sometimes somethingness is just too much (of whatever it is)

thinking about Possible Greatness/Heroism/Excellence/Divinity churns the balsamic bile, swirls it around with tenderness, sends it up against gravity, lines my esophagus while my nose bleeds from the too swift descent, away from clouds, and seeing charon wisps thinking its Time, thinking its time to rest and not particularly caring, not particularly feeling anything particular except the lacking which is its own bizarre feeling which is a feeling. which is a feeling that i can't reject. its all thats there. nothing but nothing.

a woman vacuums in the apartment above. it's 9 a.m. on saturday. nothingness is better than this something.

there are cans and cans lining shelves, blockading books, keeping them safe from forgetful hands, stuffed into the pocket of available space directly above my penis, formed from a tight fetal position greg louganis would envy. my hand is protected by a wondrous piece of elastic encircling my waist and giving me the only pride that seems worthwhile in this time. the pride of a limbless man dependent upon others to thrust him.

the pillow covers the left eye. the right eye is losing to the crust. the right eye is throwing bricks at the sleepies window, putting flaming feces at its doorstep, and it wont go. disgusting when inanimate objects have a full voicemail. i stare through the window as i call, my hand cupped like im in a movie peering into my locked-out-of-home where i will find dead my beloved wife whom i wooed for 40 years. the red, archaic landline voicemail light blinks and i think it's telling me to never come back.

nonono, the rocks n stones n trees n branches n wind are not disgusting.

i am disgusting. my will matters not. i peer into my own windows. i throw bricks at my own windows. i light feces at my doorstep'n'runaway. smiling. the soles of my feet smacking my own ass. and i will run for hours this way round my childhood neighborhood. reaching out to 12 year olds on dads lawnmower like marathon bystanders. but they don't smile at me. they don't have water for me. i am crying as the distance grows. i am crying as i run away and yell dont ever stop. dont. dont ever ever. dont ever care less or more than you do right now. dont leave this place.

i stop at a corner, t-intersection, and sit indian style. it is brighter than i thought. families on tandem bicycles ride around me. 14 year olds smoking cigarettes slink by, sneering, wearing the fashion du jour, trying so hard to be anything and therefore becoming nothing. a little girl comes over and asks if i would like lemonade. i give her 5 dollars and decline. she brings me the lemonade and smiles. i smile back at her and accept it with two hands, wanting so badly to run far away from her, or just sob on her shoulder and beg her to never get old, to always love the world and people as much as she does right now. she walks away unchanged.

i sip n think about how to treat this tremendous ass pain.

i will sit on cold kobe slabs later.

i will then cook these slabs.

i will then eat these beautifully coached, beautifully cut, beautifully cooked meats with clean silverware and napkin emerging from oxford cloth button down shirt, protecting my father's favorite tie.

two days later, i shall perish since i cannot wipe my own ass.