AmblAdorA (eBook)

J. Dionne (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
600 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-8358-6 (ISBN)

Infos

Something to ponder (and suffer) through, as one might choose, to do.

Hi!

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Edgar ends up in Rehab (for alcohol) and he leaves, still quite unsure of his own reality. We (later) learn something of his thoughts (and temperament) as he grapples with the ability to make his dreams into (some form of) a reality. This is an (unrequited) love story, informed by (science) fiction.

Textauszug

For the Worms

(Originally written in long-form poetry)

I will wake, To feel the wind. The birds dream of singing. If you can’t feel this world listen to the songs. Listen to the songs. End the extinction from the schools; from the schools of fish. Dye your hair and move to Florida, where the light shines, morning before night. I will wake, newborn and fresh, birdlike for the worms. For the worms, i will wake.

I would be the last person on the last flight that tipped the scales and polluted the skies. I would be the last to fly, across the sky, and end us all, just to be with you. Is that romantic?

The screens? Keep watching. Watch them jump. Watch them wrecking their ears. Watch them sell you something to make you thin. Watch them steal and fight and feed on your attention. Watch them steal your dreams.

Walked into the pub past the TV screams and the home team, as if that were a thing. Into the kitchen and the chef said, “You know, bitches don’t like to be called ‘bitches.’” and i stood there. “But, bitches do like to be called ‘bitches.’” and i stood there.

“And bitches don’t like to be beaten. But, they do like to be ‘beaten,’ like, in the bedroom.” and i told him, “It’s different…” God, i just wanted to make a sandwich.

It was October 2nd, 1:33 in the morning and the mist turned to snow. In the ashtray, curled to the side, there was a dead bird. I don’t know. I miss and love you and i’ll find you in the morrow. Let the calm crest and flow over.

Halloween party at the bar where i spent the last 2 hours typing, she danced on the bar-top (new boots) school girl nerd “It’s Britney, bitch.” and she crouched down and watched the video of herself dancing on her phone, panties clearly visible, before me, and it didn’t mean a thing and i held her hand as she stepped off the bar. Outside the rain turned to snow.

Every time, Sunday night, a bitch and a complaint, feet in respite, it was coke in the bathroom. About to leave, too drunk to function, it was coke in the bathroom. Girl’s night out, something to bitch about, pizza on the bar? It was coke in the bathroom. The 21 year old, doing dishes and me myself writing this down, It was coke in the bathroom.

I spoke to someone (should just leave it at that) about being non-binary, with identity or simply queer, and they replied, “Well, in this fallen world…” and i smiled.

I guess we never really had that much in common. I could never give you everything you wanted for everything you wanted was nothing at all.

The guts tremble with the sounds and footfalls. Saturated they feel with the commercials and everything else. Saturated, the guts tremble in waiting, in wanting, in living, in dying. Saturated like the mind swimming through the guts that tremble. Saturated in the voices behind and all around. Saturated the guts tremble, “Look! Look!” Look at them tremble.

Eat your cupcakes, sprinkles and all. Shove your face, your donut hole. Sprinkle your waffles with powders of sugar. Mist your eyes with tears and manure. Roll your breads

with sprinkles of flour but Leave the dead and leave the flowers. Leave them be, to the untrodden, the living. Leave them be to breathe, to breathe.

Kitchen closed, cigarette and whiskey front patio. There’s a gentleman in a southwestern sweater smoke in hand, of course. “How’s your night?” he has the look of someone who’s been at a bar around midnight. “Good. Good. Just got done in the kitchen.” “What? Here?” he points. “Yeah, here.” i smile. “I’ve been a chef, you know.” “Yeah? Nice.” “Yeah. I just spent the last 2 months in prison and i worked up a menu.” “Cool, man. That sounds great.” and smokes are dragged upon. He told me the restaurant would be named after friends who had died. I hope he makes it. The menu looked good on the creased piece of paper.

They evolve, the memories change. Once, it was her face turned sideways. That was the last. Once, it was where she came from. She came from the North when she walked to work. And, now, that sidewalk, that i’ve known forever, that sidewalk is her’s. North to South, that patch of sunlight and mental space.

She stole my hoodie and moved back to Florida.

Traveled to the suburban, utopian, abysmal abyss, train ride of terror as it shook back and forth. Slightly nerve racking. Had dinner, pleasant then filled with terror, the hesitant terror, the worry the terror. Read a letter written with care and concern, talk in the car and miss your train. Stand freezing, on the platform, before the storm. Stand, freezing, at the end of the line. Put your gloves on and rub your hands and glance about at the freezing souls. There was one who had not set his watch back. There was another i didn’t know and, then, there was Sonya; thoroughly wrapped in that puffy jacket and hood and only her eyes were visible. It was awkward, and cold, as it would be. Everyone gathered, at the end of the world, and the trains were so sparse on a Sunday.

On a Sunday before the storm. We talked for a moment, we all talked behind the cubed, glass walls. “The train will come.” and it did, much later than we all would have liked. And we clawed our way into the train, Sonya and myself. I had a home and Sonya did not. We didn’t know each other’s names at the time. “Where are you going?” She asked. “Into town, where it’s warmer.” I replied. “Where’s that?” “The only way to go, that way.” I pointed North. “I’m not from here.” And at dinner, my mother was so concerned about the time i heard that my friend’s father died and i wanted to get drunk

and cry. And i will always stand by that decision. But, Sonya was shy as am i. She asked where to go, in the night of freezing rain, of the train that went somewhere called

‘downtown.’ And we sat in the heat of the train, headed North. I had a home and Sonya did not. So, i looked up shelters on my phone and spoke to her veiled eyes. “There’s a 24hr shelter around —— and ——.” “Can you call them, to be sure?” “Yes. Yes, of course.” And i called the shelter; it was a recording but i pressed 0 to talk to a human. The train was still parked on the Southside of town and a voice answered. “Hi! Are you still open? Are you still accepting?” “Well, people show up at 6, in the morning, and there’s a lottery decided in the evening. Unless, you’re a woman, there’s a women’s overflow.” “That’s great! I’m calling for a woman. We’re on the train and she’s on the way. Can i give you her name?” “No, that’s not necessary.” And i talked to Sonya, “They said they’re still open.” “How will i get there?” She asked and i didn’t know. I looked at the map in my phone and i still didn’t know, but we figured it out. It was late on a Sunday. I gave her every scrap of currency that i had. She counted those dollars like they meant the world and she told me it would all come back to me.

I hope so. In the land of plenty we are nothing. As the snow falls, i wished Sonya the best. We are shit to not. We are shit to wish upon. $12 and a phone call, as edifying as it was, it was not enough, as i got off the train and the train rolled on.

I dropped my pen, in an excited moment, writing titles of future poems to be sure filled with merit but the planks are covered in sawdust and blood already stained by snow that bleeds into water, all of which came from the soles of my shoes. The rest is an oily rag and moldy cheese long forgotten before it ever chose to be under my feet.

As always, almost done in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette in the corner of the back patio, dirty, yellow lights swinging overhead. Ruminating a whole year of rumination. It’s mid November, and cold, and there are others on the back patio.

And almost no one closes the fucking door.

Life is a card game, laid out on the bar, like tarot. Like life. Life is a card game, opposites and composites, stacking the deck. It’s a game to be played, something to absorb. “Can i ask you a question?” “Of course.” “Can i play some music and we all take a shot and dance?” then, a touch later, “All i write is jibber jabber.” “Me, too.” Isn’t that the truth? I didn’t know her but she asked for Brody Dalle and i played, “Don’t Mess with Me” on the jukebox. “I wrote something a 100 pages long and it was jibber jabber.” she said and i smiled, “And, i distilled it to about 20 and it was still jibber jabber.” I smiled but the thoughts thought a life could be lived in a single sentence, but no one reads a single sentence. “We move through people too fast.” She told me, “If you couldn’t sing, if you couldn’t write, you would dance. You would dance.”

Sometimes you want to sleep all day and, after the time change, you do just that, as if the night had never ended and it might as well be midnight. Sometimes you don’t want to eat, and you watch whatever’s on the TV until you realize that you must and you put on your top-hat and jacket and ride down —— to get some Burger King (tm) before they lock the inside and, when you get there, a man carrying a pile of clothes asks if he can use your phone and you smile, “God, i miss pay-phones.” and add, “Yeah, but let’s go inside so i can order before they close.” and you walk that short walk and the doors are already locked. “Shit! Already? It’s only 9:40.” you exclaim, retesting the doors you already know to be locked and he responds, “Oh, it’s 9:40? Never mind.” and he walks away. Sometimes you go across the street, to get some Good Times (tm) and you order a #1 with a...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 3.1.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-8358-6 / 9798350983586