A Tiger in a River

Chalk dusted finger tips with an adrenaline jolt, zip-lined neuroses adjudicated by the moment. Lost in torn pants with a carabiner thread, socially anxious and awkward but alone and without the dread. Gripping on with rubber soles to shaky rock faces that feel so full. Flashback moment to a Tinsel strewn river, if I could take it back I wouldn’t pause though time chases me forward and I don’t know how to abscond from it’s endless quiver. I’m still fletched after return though I know somewhere I missed a target, if wishes were fishes I would have at least saw it. Easier to murmur the words to myself, ride the curve up where it’s simpler to stare down at the gulch. I know that it’s basic to stay on a track, ask not the questions that are staring right back.

Creature comforts exchanged for a soul, I suppose that’s one lesson I never learned right when I was out in the cold. It’s wicked out there, in the beauty and grease. Amidst all the foragers of life, love and what to wear while we bleat. If the greatest of tokens was untouchable sadness with no way to atone, then here on a hillside covered in muck, I’d whisper to the shadows that flicker “thanks for giving a fuck.” Without their whistled movements to cast contrast to light, the trees would feel lifeless, faded out, make for a lackluster sight.

The Tirade Letter

Image of a letter being written.

I wanted to write you a story all soaked in love and pretty things, but instead it’s going to be about rat scum, the blistering soul music of choking on personal shortcomings, and maybe a joke or two. Bad jokes at that, certainly nothing like comedians are doing these days with their hyper-intelligent breakdown of cultural idiosyncratic tendencies by way of reflection based wit.         

Will you laugh at my jokes about museum quality antiques going up in flames while a house full of puppies burns?

I’m not so sure your sense of humor—wish I could get a feel for that before writing the story, because you know, once the ink’s on the page it’s a bit too late for regrets. I prefer to live with an abject awareness and semi-permanent psychologically unsound box of my personal mental fabrication to insulate them out, regrets that is. I’ve heard of better ways I suppose, but who has the time or money for that?

Certainly if you have to confront some dilapidated and uncomfortable feelings at some point that may smack of inadequacy, do it in stand up fashion and just face the music. Life can be good, it can be shit, and a myriad of shit colored varieties mixed in between. Doesn’t have to dictate the characters we all play on the larger stage, we can so eloquently write our own flaws.

Otherwise it would be like taking diction from some phone line person babbling away while they get busy scuttling their own sense of disgust by third-party. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be that kind of ethical whore who is susceptible to that kind of mind game. Willing to uproot and gag down on the more successful perspective because they had the audacious idea of getting to it first so they could be in better position for the final thrust? 

Emotional purification through mindfuckery and a psychological blow job seems far too easy a road out if you ask me.

Like I said, I don’t know your sense of humor, so I’m not sure whether I should pull back a bit on the off color commentary for your sake. Then again, I don’t know your personality either and maybe you’re one of those people that appreciates a no-holds barred rigmarole tirade of non-penitent truths delivered in the voice of the speaker who says it how it is instead of how they want it to be.

Or you aren’t and you’re one of those deceitful little rat fucks that huddles behind false smiles and bravado attitude that refuses to be honest even with yourself and is liable to turn tail and betray the trust of others faster than the lab tech can reload your daily selection of cheddar, medium not sharp.

I really hope that’s not the case though, and if there’s any sense to this fantastical story and scheme that I’ve been told about the genetic structure and predisposition of whatchamahoosit chromosomes and mitochondrial DNA, then I’m fairly certain you aren’t like that.

Blood fairy constitution by virtue of dad’s semi-descended Oingo Boingo soundtrack and mom’s canal of misjudgment.

Fuck it, here goes nothing.