Resignation

My collection of books, they are often thrown around my apartment like worn clothes. Worn and held too long and wearing thin. Stretched and torn and sewn into flesh and the spines bend inward.

Funny thing when you hold on to clothes too long is people don’t quite like it like you haven’t moved on but they stay in that same busted ass relationship with a car that barely starts and a voice that barely echoes beyond the perception of themselves. Funny things.

Bolaño, Capote, Bukowski, Cixin Liu, Herbert, Marquez, McCarthy. They now scream into a void with a lack of engagement. The least I can do is give them a place to live. The saints of ownership and imperfection, poster children of abandon and judgement, Gods of Lack of worship. Do not try. They try to exclaim but what these authors really mean is do not force yourself in trying. Listen. Engage. We’ve lost the fucking plot if there ever was one to begin with.

We all rely on buzz words when the beehive is rotting, the corpses fill the honey and a blackness drips from the bottom with no hint of gold.  Oh but rest assured Miami is waiting for you! Oh she’s calling and hunkered down and can’t wait to feast on your thoughts just a little bit more until you obsess with the lifestyle she has to offer. Beach to beach, STD to STD. Whats the difference right?

The bell toll was written into scripture and now screams at us through every hit song and every billion dollar cracking film and the cement beneath you has split in half and another beer will do. Please and thank you.