Song Memory #1

A few years ago the dusk was tight and powerful. Waiting and waiting; no ideas: dreary glorious middlecity uptown surrounded everything. All I wanted were the drugs, really. At that time he was my friend…
A man inside himself so deeply that even the inside was on the horizon of his actual location. Wonder if any of us can claim differently, to the superior or inferior consequence; Regardless.
Whatever the case, his apartment (the old one), draped in flags of sub-cultural nationalism, was filling with the smoke of two expertly constructed blunts, one peach and one cherry, when you called to check up on my progress. In all decency (which I pretend to have) and 20/20 hindsight (which eludes me), I should have told you to make other plans.
Wait for hours—Take the ride—screaming fight in front of strangers and friends—the dusk I never knew could be the glassy eyes of meteorological ancestors, toiling, toiling, building storms, chinooks, the warm wind from where the cold wind should exist—I resided myself to take the bus. There was no middle ground of acceptability.

Note: One thing I have definitely learned is that there is always a middle ground of acceptability. My back problems seem too easily exploited to be used as a suitable metaphor.

The fateful walk home from Bathurst and Sheppard, enjoyed and loathed on a million days before and since, was solipsistic glory. The world and I were created to exist in relation to the walk itself, the mid-album lull, the cold reader’s wall, the glass ceiling in the stone pantry filled with berries and preserves for the coming season. My tongue on your legs taking careful note, drawing blueprints, writing treatments for the purpose of deep scene by scene analysis at a later date when the script can be incorrectly reconstructed and raised to a level of monocultural ubiquity (quit me, quit me, quit me). I reach to you in non-physical media with fingers of saliva that taste for burnt pages who’ve never seen fire. My face curling inwards upon itself, lips and nose and teeth are blips, closed and sheathed by a RADAR unit that never I met nor ever met me or you or us. My grandfather’s service record is the same sky that could not be a memory yet; I flew high and friendly (thank you Marvin) towards your rage and disappointment.

The feeling was significant if the aftermath was not. Thank you.