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SOLILIQUY FOR “LE BATEAU IVRE”
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BUT DAD, HE'S A POET
Failed! Again! Yes, again I find myself in this sullen room alone. All the prospects diminished by the ever present disasters—always wanting to reach out for me and this—this pen—it does me no good now. I have based my life upon it and now I find it useless. It can not jumpstart a car or provide heat on a winter eve. I have never eaten ink before and I do not imagine its taste too pleasant. So how has this trap arisen?
That is one question persistently running through my mind. What, I wonder, could have created this horrible wretch I am; this complete failure? I am unable to transcend the shallow waters of this society’s boundaries. I am too weak a man to make that brazen leap in the dark. Pity me in my pathetic fear; a child shivering at heart at the mere cackle of crickets. It causes anxious ripples down my spine. No, I look out this window and see the street below. The chitter chatter of residents and passer-bys in the form of teenage lovers. I feel the sorrow of my squandered youth and regrets on all those things that I never did. All the comic book heroes appear before me as my imagination lets them live and assume a spot in my heart. And they said, “That’s only fantasy. There are no more superheroes to rescue you now.” And I am left waiting on rescue and the girl of my dreams but it has all proven fruitless. If I am to do, I am to do it alone. That is the only way that I can roll. My fate is blindfolded by random chance and I am left here struggling to find an open door and all my search is in vain. Consumption of Satan’s juice provides for reckless abandon and stuporous strength. I feel the role of Atlas with the weight of the planet on my shoulders. I am not up to carrying it any further. All I can do is pick up this pen and throw it away. It shall poison me no more. All I have left is my own blood and I spill it yet onto the page. I let it drip slowly from my hand. It is all I have left to give. The rest has gone up in smoke. The flames ingesting the paper produces a thick, black smoke. It is all gone up in flames and we still dream but only the blood remains. . .
October 31, 1993
