HAIKU #1
GIG
Fuh…
What a dandy ultimate USE of the subject/object self: as a touchstone of Decline and Fall . . . mammal . . . human . . . universal! What sort of writer would I be to decline the invitation? Of all the cheesy stories I’ve wanted no part of, this would appear to have my name–well, one of ’em–all over it. The No-Insulation Kid at your service! Deeper than skin-naked, deeper than flesh-naked: come have a peek, see what’s underneath . . . parts-o-me that age ain’t touched, and those it’s already trampled.
You’re an old fucking foop, it’s finally kicking in, and things can only get worse. Dry patches dot your face. Your eyebrows grow out weird: trim them good, bub, or look like some German expressionist KOOK. There are hairs on your fucking earlobes back so far you can’t see ’em, your eyes are so bad. Watch out–take care!–or you’ll chip another tooth on a bowl o’ banana flakes. T for Tuesday–don’t forget–the day to take out the Trash. (Or izzit Thursday?) Oldfriends have had enough of YOU, and you’ve had enough of THEM, and on days like today you can’t wait for them all to be bones in the boneyard. Be patient, it’ll come, and in the meantime: clothing calls.
It now feels about three and a half.
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And then, the long run. Though miracles do happen, it will in all likelihood take you longer than you anticipate–an unfair percentage of the time you’ve got left–to get much of anything right, to develop your own “chops,” to arm yourself the way nurturing parents hypothetically did while you were (or at least I was) still wriggling in diapers…you have to factor in the LONG HAUL. (Writing, for inst–something I personally wouldn’t wish on a dog–will take you 15 years, minimum, to even begin to get right.)
