The Catch

Skin leaking like light, a shriek fest, you heard it. Keen it. Eat it. The perk just past the patting. Breathe it. Chaw on it endless. You’ve got a whole handful and you can keep it up long into the end times. Pull yourself along the path by the root of your tongue. Step forward and vibrate with the masses. These are high church folk, the big money folk, waiting in the wings to speak with the preacher. You can pick endlessly at your broken bits, justify them by the jiggle in your vision. I’m jealous, I am.

If I could I’d just sit at home all day, blinds drawn, curled up in a casket of polarfleece.

But back to me, on the floor, denuded. There are videos of the most mundane things. They loop wonderfully. The world fades away in a most spiritual sense, seeking these things that (deliberately!) have no meaning. Trying to break out of old habits that are so much bigger than we are. The only way out, is through. The markets move this. You can ask them as much. The markets move and we move with them, all wrapped up. The mountains move and we sit still, stewing in the grave water. Gleaming with the grime of accounting. You got all bundled up. For nothing! You got all gleaming and couldn’t make sense of it. I’ll pity you, but just for now, peeking out of that black cocoon. I’ll peel away the layers and pounce around, blundering wildly.

I’ve lost interest, already. But that’s the point! We’re only concerned with things that are far away, things distant and hale. The less we see them, the more our imaginations acquire. The further off they are the more we love them. So, love them then. Here—me, curled and calyxed—the whole world is benighted. It’s the rage of life that leaves me off like this, the full fire of reality that brokers such a simple peace. The cold gets in, that’s true, but so much more, and more so much more fully. The grit of the earth, the grunt of the moving. The seismic sloughing of atoms whirling around their center, it all slows for me. Inhabiting the rules as I have, these all seem simple by contrast, and it all sets.

There’s a place nearby that sells these little bottles. Script unintelligible. It’s all caffeine with a dash of cholesterol and casein. You drink it down in a gulp and the whole world gets wan and jiggly. Things seem slick, but manageable. Whole barriers of the mind are broken down and you feel like you can talk to anyone, anywhere, anytime. I wash three of these a day down my gullet—civet scented—I think. Adjusted thusly I wrap the bundling tighter and sink into oblivion for an hour or two. Waking to the dark is not uncommon, the midnight metrics awash on me anyways. That’s when I feel ready to take on the day. I’ll step out into the street, stripped and stinking (the blanket sops up anything I dribble, stains tend to grow and spread then metastasize and suddenly get stomatic). I can judge those easily. Those who sway and dangle? Those are my people, those who speed away as though symptomatic? To hell with them and theirs.

The catch is that I have nowhere to go. No one would let me in, anywise. So, the wandering. I try to cover fifty blocks before the sun comes up, set a goal and conquer it. I’ll make it most of the way before being conjured into someone else’s head. Cracks they stray, I’ve heard it said. Minds they shatter, is another old saying, when subjected to pressure.

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Samuel M. Moss