a visit to a house of medicine

My vocoder box condition, perpetrated by an 18 day cough and presented before a lady

specializing in dispelling myths, did nothing to waver my 16 year resolution that, unfortunately, had been broken right at my moment of beginning an educated explanation.

She asked me questions that seemed futile enough that I had to lie down on the examination bed, and waive the rights for my 1.7 year old evidence of obesity to be prevented from being pressed during deliberate acts of drawing breath. As I had self-diagnosed tonsillitis, I managed a self-congratulatory state of equipoise on a visitor's chair following the completion of the performance, half-expecting a confirmation.

It seemed that I had still left several options unchecked in a mental questionnaire framed by the doc. A 250 rupee price paid for a default allergy diagnosis motivated me enough to fake a missing blackberry in a neighbouring room where I had seen my gravitational pull increase from a previous state thereof. The janitors clucked their sympathetic tongues that produced longitudinal waves effective enough to attract the lady freed from my ordeal.

She commented on my misfortune, and promptly opened her handbag to show that my phone wasn't in.

fiction...the beginning

"yes, there will be rain tomorrow," the drunkard helping a somewhat crooked dog into a bout of yelping through an unpremeditated use of his feet remarked. sammy was returning home from work heart-in-mouth, and the possibility of the strong urine smell in his vicinity foreboding doom by way of the drunkard increased two-fold in his mind with the heart going out to the canine. he lived next to an eagle-attracting golf course, bookended on the other side by a cemetery that served to reduce real-estate prices in the area and presented chance encounters with eunuchs and devil-worshipper lookalikes.

the intoxicated man ambled along a path away from "dream paradise," while a frightened sammy slowed down enough to not be able to approach the gate thereof yet. "a pair dies," thought sammy, as he exaggerated the doom to the extent of his abode.

the telugu-speaking idiot watchman salaamed as one of several lights exposed sammy to the incomprehensibilities that awaited on the other side of the metal bars.

"did my owner come?" was broken into "owner," followed by an action of pointing the chest with the index finger and lifting the finger towards the second floor balcony.

I am front

"sometimes i think i'm genuinely weird
and sometimes i know i'm genuinely weird
and sometimes i wish they all knew
that sometimes it's my only hope to be a bird"

...so thought sammy sometimes. hoping for some times magazine to publish this excerpt from some poem written some time by sammy sometime. he hopped for some hope like some hoopoe doing hula hoops adopted by whoopi. i am a lonesome hobo, bob, sang hank in a mock tribute that sounded like boo-boo. when in the sixth grade, there is the usual confusion as to whether the jamuna is a tributary of the yamuna, or, whether legumes laugh lugubriously at long-drawn lobotomies. when in the seventh, you happily accept a d- with dread, for the presence of your accountant father does give rise to the possibility of your sins being counted to the decimal prior to your logic deciding that the test scores are printed in ambiguous ink.

(my sexy secretary wearing dr. no clothes was instructed to type this leave letter in the colour of a thistle. and she got it all wrong)

Letter to a Friend about Girls - Philip Larkin

After comparing lives with you for years
I see how I’ve been losing: all the while
I’ve met a different gauge of girl from yours.
Grant that, and all the rest makes sense as well:
My mortification at your pushovers,
Your mystification at my fecklessness—
Everything proves we play in separate leagues.
Before, I couldn’t credit your intrigues
Because I thought all girls the same, but yes,
You bag real birds, though they’re from alien covers.

Now I believe your staggering skirmishes
In train, tutorial and telephone booth,
The wife whose husband watched away matches
While she behaved so badly in a bath,
And all the rest who beckon from that world
Described on Sundays only, where to want
Is straightway to be wanted, seek to find,
And no one gets upset or seems to mind
At what you say to them, or what you don’t:
A world where all the nonsense is annulled,

And beauty is accepted slang for yes.
But equally, haven’t you noticed mine?
They have their world, not much compared with yours,
But where they work, and age, and put off men
By being unattractive, or too shy,
Or having morals—anyhow, none give in:
Some of them go quite rigid with disgust
At anything but marriage: that’s all lust
And so not worth considering; they begin
Fetching your hat, so that you have to lie

Till everything’s confused: you mine away
For months, both of you, till the collapse comes
Into remorse, tears, and wondering why
You ever start such boring barren games
—But there, don’t mind my saeva indignatio:
I’m happier now I’ve got things clear, although
It’s strange we never meet each other’s sort:
There should be equal chances, I’d’ve thought.
Must finish now. One day perhaps I’ll know
What makes you be so lucky in your ratio

—One of those ‘more things’, could it be? Horatio.

Writ On The Steps Of Puerto Rican Harlem - Gregory Corso

from Long Live Man

There’s a truth limits man

A truth prevents his going any farther

The world is changing

The world knows it’s changing

Heavy is the sorrow of the day

The old have the look of doom

The young mistake their fate in that look

That is truth

But it isn’t all truth

Life has meaning

And I do not know the meaning

Even when I felt it were meaningless

I hoped and prayed and sought a meaning

It wasn’t all frolic poesy

There were dues to pay

Summoning Death and God

I’d a wild dare to tackle Them

Death proved meaningless without Life

Yes the world is changing

But Death remains the same

It takes man away from Life

The only meaning he knows

And usually it is a sad business

This Death

I’d an innocence I’d a seriousness

I’d a humor save me from amateur philosophy

I am able to contradict my beliefs

I am able able

Because I want to know the meaning of everything

Yet sit I like a brokenness

Moaning: Oh what responsibility

I put on thee Gregory

Death and God

Hard hard it’s hard

I learned life were no dream

I learned truth deceived

Man is not God

Life is a century

Death an instant

late night walk in a developing homeland

slow horns speak the serene language

that the dim bulbs poison my head with

dusty depression deepens distortion -

"leave to fight another day; precisely live"

ponderous prescience; quietly disengage

walking the 11 pm roads, I see a dead bat

having been silenced by rainy day signals

or is that the smell of third-world shit?

my modified motherland mindset trying

trying hard to brave the 9 pm dogs

smelling my underpants from outside

and walking with my sorrow on a limp

we need intrigue not adumbrative love

so sighed my moderated silence -

allowing way for the thoughts to

occupy my offensive smelling return.

the insignificant

like discovering life
in silent moments of significant torment
like fighting tedium
when driving around the Baltimore beltway
like inventing fears
of falling headlong into the Potomac river
like risking every comfort
for procrastinating impending depression
like playing serious games
to distract sinister spiritual contentment

genius has its best test in routine.