Eke of the Jagoff
Under battery-fed candlelight, ahead of these so many more griefy years of withdrawing claim from the other’s conformity, this fatigue cheek-swishes a room temperature wish (as fatigue’s tongue is wont to have done over it when behind self-editorial doors – tests to see how long it can behold taste before needing to come up for air), and without outsider input weighs as an outsider which Tempter of the binary two – yes, two; yes, binary – a groundwork addicted chump-ass will align his word choices with while they come to life on the page before him to – as he is too in this very moment – peer up at the sky and stamp down on the dead—this fatigue cheek-swishes a wish into a warm swallow (air begets aftertaste), and ponders which of the two manipulators of heart-strings-tied detachments Chalice Sinclearly will be fully present for. But even that; and even though Sinclearly repeats himself constantly, fixated as he is on reading his own mid-life bewilderments aloud in this echo-shamed basement we’ll happily label as our “Shelter from the Storm,” and on having himself a skilled sob every few months, going to YouTube to view that one of that one mother duck who cried to police officers to help rescue her ducklings from a sewer, and the cops damn-well did, and them ducklings were so excited to get back to their momma, and they surrounded her with little leaps and quacks, cheering out “Momma, Momma, Momma!” and that mother duck was so overjoyed she touched each offspring on its head with her bill to make certain each was accounted for while also assuring each he or she was once again safe in Momma’s presence—even though all of this, this fatigue will assure you, Chalice Sinclearly is all man. … All man, even though his fellow man is beginning to make him feel more and more like man’s bitch – man’s fibs having become lazier, becoming as they have more bent in towards the other’s cool—hell, Sinclearly believed three things would happen when mankind matured: mankind would stop squirting ketchup onto weenies, would stop rooting for The Friendly Confines, and would begin to recognize that authentic criticism is not composed of the cosmetic questions of our vitality, but of the gutsy questions of our temporality. … Even though his fellow man ekes the jagoff out of him (as a measure of brainy self-defense he now crouch-walks and snaps fingers when coming up to any of our bricks-and-mortar bookshops), this fatigue will assure you, Chalice Sinclearly is all man. … Assured, he’s a special kind of freaking flake, his design a singular phenomenon, never quite way too opposite. But below this fatigue’s gauzy microscope, inside this committed moment down here, he’s being a variant waif of too-mindful angles. … And he can blow me.