literature

Why Alice Never Learns

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The ledger has sprouted roots; it has sprouted roots and it is thrusting them deep into the bellies of Times Square and all its spin-offs while this new gravity spins my head off--galaxies swirling alive in the run off; bitter like the battery tinge of cocaine melting down the throat.

There’s no smell quite like a freshly broken ego or a cracked and oozing spine. It’s such a filthy fuckin’ drug, ain’t it? By my rotten insides, it seems a farce now to have ever been concerned with the plight of the popular.

Remember the night you awoke from the loveliest dream to find yourself spot-lit in a thundering-violent guerilla theater?  It was too obvious to allow you to fall back asleep so you performed, limbs a-dangle, desperately batting your big, syrupy doll eyes to invite someoneanyone to take up your abandoned strings.

Pathétique

You asked only that he be a cleverer puppeteer than you, but they never quite knew what to say to that, did they?

The interminably, indubitably hollow, eternally lonesome landscape that exists just at all of your backs; this is where I breathe, and there is simply no oxygen left on this planet. It’s why I will only show you my eyes if I know you can be trusted with my sacred secret, and you can only be trusted with this secret if you live inside it, too.

This is why I am alone, to borrow from my favorite proverb.

I knew I’d have to bring him my bones and to this, father, I have willingly submitted. Yet, I still can’t decipher, of all the voices in my head, which one of them is God; for, through the wryly chuckling, swollen eyes of a victim of cerebral depredation, stars are just stars and red ribbons in the road merely red ribbons in the road.

Through a tinkling curtain of the latest connect-the-dots constellations, here is an aerial view of me - oh very young - trying urgently to comprehend as, beneath tumbling Texas stars, my uncle insists fervidly, uselessly to me upon the inherent beauty of math.

[My first exposure to vastness]

Only now do I see: it is all right there in the Pythagorean-perfect incline of your nose, my most intriguing new friend.

I’m hiding behind my own candidness again. Frankly, one [or more] of these things is true:

- These words alter themselves according to who is reading them
- I’ve never been to Portland
- I ache to learn your tattoos

Think of it: we could compare the cracks in our chests
Mourn the slow dissolution of the full moon
Even become tangible

Maybe

I am a fool. I’m a fool. Let me make sure we’re all aware that I’m aware so that you don’t waste your time trying to hurt me for it.

I tell you again that though I am oft accused of tampering with circumstantial evidence, I will always remain faithful to the court of the grand observers. If you’ll recall, I never asked for anything but to see it up close – your supposed glory – to see if the hollow admiration of all the world has yet beaten the humanity and humility out of you; to be sure I understand its marvelous machinations so that I should not suffer the same when I am inevitably set ablaze and cast across the sky as you have been.

I appreciate you inspiring me to exhume my ribs, you rat, but I must admit that this plate of bones I’ve prepared for someone else.

Foolishness: assuming a po-et whose faith is composed of his very words is not the exception

Foolishness: choking on my alphabet soup again

I’m being nebulous—let me tell you straight: I’m a goddamn fool and I don’t know that I could be convinced I have time enough to try to be anything else.

There is clearly no defeating terminal velocity; embracing the descent is critical.

[We all still sometimes forget that Alice’s ankles did not shatter when she landed.

All those parachute skirts.]

So then, let’s stand back and admire the artful shot of the framework of our favorite jigsaw riddle, nearly solved:

[We started with the outside pieces just like mother taught]

How to reconcile the non-impossibility, the plausibility, the reality of a de rigueur, functioning relationship between free will and fate?

Sunshine-bright graffiti; DIVINE PROVIDENCE and ONUS OF CHOICE overlaid, encircled 28 times in yellow spray paint on a summer-green highway sign.
May he be a friendly ghost this time
© 2009 - 2024 entropicalia
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usefulidiot284's avatar
It is nice to see you still writing. I am always left frozen fingered when I decide to comment on your work. Just know that even fools can be brilliant at something. And you are a master of your craft, no matter how foolish you feel. Now, I am done feeding that broken ego of yours.:neom: