For Sale

FOR SALE / OBO: Used discord and chemical imbalance. Bad words & worse jokes. Comes with a broken bicycle. $20

FREE: Love. Comes with old, dormant aggression. Halfway resolved; in good condition. Oil recently changed, no more emotional backfires. Rant and ramble prose included. Madness still intact.

WANTED (ISO): Everlasting love & contentment. Often comes with salvation for sinful souls, if available. Also needed: a nice pair of legs that can hold a conversation & a great song that never ends.

Dear Fuckers,
I’m writing with an audience in mind today. That’s weird. Couldn’t you better spend your time reading something concrete and informative? Aren’t you hungry? Go fix yourself a sandwich. Did you leave the oven on? Does the wash need to be switched? There’s still some weed in your sock drawer, you’re better off rolling a number and putting some Dead on the loudest speaker.

Some of the letters on this keyboard are broken. Mainly, the u and the p. I have to locate them and copy + paste. It’s fitting; the letters and the circumstances. They all seem to piece together into this gumbo of dislocated desire. I’ll just unfold, now.

Desire… desire… I’m always talking about desire. I like it because it resonates with fire.
It is the flame that makes my mind molten.

I broke my $25 thrift store bike last week. It was to be expected, but not this soon. I switched gears, the chain caught the derailleur. It stopped me almost instantly. It bent itself way out of shape. I couldn’t fix it, despite varied attempts.
I used my hands and applied leverage.
I asked fellow bikers for tools & assistance.
I threw a tantrum.
Which is to say that I threw the bike.
At the pavement of the bike path.
It didn’t make it better.
It didn’t make it worse.

Like a child, I cursed the integrity of this machine. The machine can’t hear me. So I cursed myself for being inadequate. I swear I never stopped watching cartoons because I never really “grew up”. I just grew out. Still getting longer and stranger every day.

Luckily, I could still roll my wreckage to town. I stashed it in a bush behind the bike shop. That was a week ago. I haven’t left the house since it’s been broken. It needs a new derailleur. I’m broke for a few more weeks.
I had set out to cover a distance. With miles on my mind, I felt free from the trap of indoor housing.
Don’t get me wrong, I love having a roof over my head:
-When it’s cold out.
-When it’s raining.
-When I own stuff.

Otherwise, I see no advantage of doors & windows over dirt & stars. Call me unconventional, but I’m sick of conventions. They’re a composting pile of agreed-upon ideas; aggregate symbols combined with rhythm and an arbitrary sense of time. This makes what we call “modern convention” & “time & space” in a cultural sense.  I have a hunch that they were born of the Age of Reason & Agriculture.

I’ll tell you a story about it. Modern Convention met Cultural Construct downtown at the farmers market. He liked the innocence in her stride. She liked his crazy eyes & wit. Together, they cast out the darkness in their lives, and built something. They had a child named “Social Institution”. He’s a good kid at heart, but sometimes forgets he is just a kid. Much like the rest of the family, Social Institution has started a feud with Natural Order.  These days, Culture has a base-level rudeness that isn’t tolerated by the Natural family. Their passive aggressive ways elude to a disheartening desire for domination over the opposing force. They often forget that they are all related. There’s a war goin’ on outside no man is safe from. So don’t worry. They’ll get you when they get you.

The great thing about Natural Order is that she always prevails. She represents the good that cannot be changed. Culture represents change itself. Man could be considered the bad that can be changed. Challenge me on that one. We can damage Natural Order, but her roots run too deep to be completely abolished by the ignorance of the Cultural Family. The story goes ultimately unstarted and unfinished.

So here I am, bashing this and smashing that, taking no caution to consider the other sides of the stories. Empiricism is more fun, anyhow. We can only sense that which we perceive. And right now, I don’t feel like being very sensitive; it’s The American Way! Tao de Americana. It’s what I like to call, “The Westerner”: a steak Reuben made with fear beef marinated in corn syrup thanksgiving gravy, orange biodegradable petrolium-based swiss cheese, and McDonald’s Mac Sauce radish sauerkraut. Top it off with Pizza Hut breadsticks and a counterfeit $20 bill garnish.

This is my friend, Ideology. He gets his mail in the mind, but he lives within the county limits of Action (in the state of Perpetual Motion). Ideology: all that moves from the head. We orient ourselves with the physical realm through ideas & concepts. Ideas are truly powerful. i don’t consider any “my own”. They come from without, as a collection of reflections. Hermes & Pan, Christ & Buddha, Alan Watts & Socrates. Me and you. Who? Any you. All of you. None of you.

You talk shit to my confidence.
You break the letters that finish my sentences.
You hold some grudge against my success & satisfaction.

You fortify my weaknesses.
You stimulate my depressants.
You brighten my darkness.
You simplify my complications.
You clarify my obscurities.
You punchline my jokes.

You weep at my first signs of aggression.
You replace my hunger with thirst, yet you quench my sense of guilt.
You owe me no hints to the riddle, yet you give yourself away before the river card is shown.

This doesn’t amount to much more than a hill of words. Perhaps a glimpse of insight will deliver itself between the pixels. I’m stuck between here and there; my ego is split in half like wood. Desire in opposing directions will cook sanity. Throw another log in the stove. Stir the sauce. I’m sure the meal will be appeal to all senses, thus being born of a sensible nature. So it will go. And I will eat myself. I’ll share what I can before it eats me up. “As I slay myself, I nourish myself.” This winter darkness is settling in. I can feel my knots loosening up while the inner wind devours all traces of hunger. It’s a fucking sandstorm inside. If you are only made of skin, I won’t let you in.

I’m hungry. For love. It purges my soul of all fears.
I bask in an astral glow and visit when you’re lonely.
I follow your lead, sinking to the mercurial depths of melancholic optimism & communing souls.
Do I fear monogamy? I want soul mate plurality.
PoIyamorous existentialism.
I’m not sure if I am the kind of animal that mates for life. I fear co-dependence.
Anything that depletes unyielding self-reliance is bad for my health.
I’m looking for source traces of the highest vibration.
I see it beyond each lonely set of loving pupils.
I bet you’ve got a queen of hearts beneath a pair of diamonds.

It’s not all romantic love, of course. I seek no lust. It’s just a matter of connection. So I give myself unto you, as I am. I seek not for my own benefit, but instead for yours and the benefit of the whole. How can I light the way for you and I and All? I’m all over the place. Cards on the table, cards close to my chest, cards up my sleeve. My offer is convoluted, because I still don’t always know. I just feel what I feel and forget what I think I know. Mysteries hidden, whereabouts unknown. Where are them pretty little eyes with thighs that want to pitter-patter ponder & wander along? I’m tryin’ to find out.

Fuck off or fuck on. I don’t mind. You can take my money, but don’t make me mad. I’m done here.

Sincere and fully,
Ronald Jappahand
113 Snowbank Storage Lane
Solitaire, Babylon
802 420 1989

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Categories: Prose | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

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