My Bottle Of Whine

With winking smile, this clever one

Who left behind the shining sun!

But in a moment none too soon

He finds he's running from the moon!

I hate those morons who take what little money they get and spend it right away on a bottle of booze, so obviously running away in futility. But no matter how much I've tried to chastise them over the years my words always rang hollow. That's because I do the same thing only I know how to lie about it better - which makes me even dumber than they are.

It's been a game ever since losing Emily, seeing how close I can get to a visibly drunken state without going over the line. Fuck reality. Who needs it. Drink, don't drink - my world stays the same. "Pay your goddam rent." "Find your own goddam sex." "Tell me how you're hurting so I can rape you easier." It will be that way until the end. Here in the street I see you from below, exposed and outted clear as day. But no one hears a voice on the street.

So no one can see my bullshit either. I too play the game of appearances. You win if no one finds out you're freaking drunk. Haha! Fooled you! I would never deal with you fuckers straight up! Then you go home, fearing the blank bed where the drug wears off and the encircling wolves who can no longer be kept at bay. Last thing I see before nodding off is snarling teeth ready to devour my soul. Sweet dreams!

"I'm sorry you feel that way!"

After the nightly hells I crawl to the morning sun. I must live as a thief, any moment for myself I steal. Before I can drink I'm dragged off to work. Along the day I few sips from my hidden stash. Feeling the thorns of the world won't make them go away, I reason. If I make it through the day and pay my rent at the end of the month I call that victory.

But what have I won?

Indeed, the homeless errant, I am. I set up a false world where I can "win". I keep my denial and stay living indoors. Yeehaw! It's horrible to feel you're doing nothing right. I see other idiots playing this same game. I excused myself from blame because...well, that's what one does, isn't it? But in the end all I'm doing is subsidizing my slavery, misunderstanding all I see.

Jesus never praised the world. An honest man. I praise it when I win and rail against when I lose. A dishonest man. Nowhere in actual life am I winning - no man in denial ever can. In real life I can't win anyway. (My stubborn negativity on this point of self-sabotage is both legendary and infamous at this point.) But everyone knows that's where the only true winning can occur. If the dead Steve Jobs could speak he'd be the poster boy on losing while winning. One can find shortcuts in the world, never in life.

For reasons unacceptable to me I've been sober recently. That lets all the feelings of suicide and drowning darkness back in, along with the panic attacks and actual physical cramping that can come with it. (Thank God for hotel lobby bathrooms) And I've come to realize what a fool's game I'm playing. Before, I was tracking every red cent so I could pretend I was "getting ahead" or some such folly. Sober, it's impossible to have any interest in worldly matters. Everything is simply a chore.

My eyes are like empty dark shotgun casings: they once had a purpose but now are spent. I would love to be a millionaire on the street. I could sit slouched over with my back against some 7-11's slimy brick wall, eating a candy bar, buying a lottery ticket to express my hopelessness, no need to pretend to belong to anything. But at the end of the day I could return to a safe bed. Best of both worlds.

I am damaged goods. In the aftermath of the Emily affair I short-circuited. I have trouble remembering how to spell simple words, trouble typing without stuttering adding extra letters. Physically, I'm a wreck going downhill. Most of all, I have absolutely zero interest in anything I do or say in daily conversation. I brag to myself about the brilliance of my con game but who am I conning? If you're not getting anywhere you're not really doing anything.

Sobriety sucks. I don't care about cars or Japan or female gymnasts. It's all just a bunch of rot. I am as alone as any man in history. God bewares the successful clown. Don't know where this is going to take me. Dark corridors I now face in my dreams. My kingdom is in ashes - and I'm the arsonist. Through barely slitted eyes I broach the devastation of my treachery. Maybe I never admitted it. Maybe I thought I couldn't have anything because I thought I couldn't have love. Shit.

Everything in life always leads home.