Monday, July 26, 2004

Corky dregs of a wandering intellect...

I both look and feel like I just went several rounds with Muhammad Ali in his prime. Strutted ever so--confidentally into the financial aid office today, feeling like I had my whole entire corpus of my cusped literati offerings cheering me on in the pell-mell behind the striped ropes. Nope. Got a financial TKO in the first round. Ouch. That has to hurt. Got up. Spat out blood disguised as financial burden. Motioned with my gloves to bring 'em on. I apply for an alternative loan. The butterfly floated ever so gingergly. The bee injected it's venomous syringe with an indelible sting to the jaw. I can't remember if the canvas of reality propped up and smacked me in the temple or if I was simply planted into the center of the ring, the taut soil of the canvas slowly transitioning into a corpse;  a wan colored cone crowned my defeated aura like a dunce cap. The crowd continued to pelt out invectives. My equilibrium tottered and slid. I heard the Ref. (whose head, in this scenario resembles Michelangelo's nickel-bearded God) splayed his arm like a toll-both and gruffly beagn to work his way up to ten. I realized that several of my teeth were missing. I looked into the audience and saw the girl of my dreams wearing a low-cut denim skirt and sitting on the knee-cap of my best friend. I saw little cukoo-birds fluttering into a collective halo above my head and whistle out failure. Once again, I heave myself up from the base of the my adversaries trussed boots. I spit. Vertigo has sliced my opponent into three, so now Mr. Ali is the trinity. I don't know which one to hit. The voice of God slices my carousel concentration and beckons me to "fight".  Log on to Citi loans. Engender a password with uppper case font. Submit my drivers license and yearly income.  Submit multiple phone numbers. Submit references.Submit desired amount of loan needed. Swing my arm the direction of the smudged opponent. Swing again. I think about my father and rememebr him telling me in the formative big-glasses little-league era that  it didn't matter to him if I struck out as long as I struck out swinging. As long as I firmly grappled the steel baton and took an earnest heave at the bullet sphere hurtling in my direction. As long as I swung the bat, as long as I put myself out there, it didn't matter if I circled the bases in glory or ignominously lumbered back to cold socket of the dug out pinned in adolescent agony--all that mattered was that you swing the bat, and that you physically swatted everything that is inside you and emptied yourself over home plate. That's all that mattered.   

The red sentence pops up as if it were kept in a music box, denying me access. I see the red gloss of the sucker punch before I am gulped into unconciousness. As if underwater I hear the ref wade through prime numbers until he reaches double digits. I am considered the loser. I speculate where my best friends paws might have migrated.

But no. I don't give up. The match is officially over. I spit. I can't see straight. I've been hit more times than a joint at woodstock and all I can say is bring it on!!! Is that the best you have to offer. Come on! A ring isn't something you place on your finger daily to remind yourself of a palsied promise; it's a place you live inside of. It's a place you never leave.

And Michangelo's God just looks at me like I'm crazy. Like I'm nucking futs. Like I'm a dervish drooling adages no one can spirtually intuit. Like I'm the devil. Like I'm completely crazy. Like, even though I've been pelted down, I still want to continue to dual, feeling that, as long as I can savor any morsel of consciouness, I am immortal.

Three right clicks and two cigarettes later, I found another web page. Another loan. It looks promising. I buy books prematurely for class. I blogg defeated woes. I think about how it feels to be depleted, to get knocked down on your ass, to watch your best friend grope the perfect palm of the girl who scatters your dreams with sugar.   

And how you look out at them only you can't see them. You've been hit too many times. You've been cut open and every one can see your every bruise. Your every minor welt.

You still refuse to go down for the count. You still refuse to go down, to go down without a punch. To go down without swinging. 

1 comment:

daku said...

D! hang in in there. lady benzedrine and mara arya are on your side, ready to fight. my fingers crossed for you. prayers and love!