Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 40

essay cover chalice

That’s Using the Ol’ Noggin
(Backstory of Philosophy)

It’s been well over five years since Chalice Sinclearly last thought about plugging this bathtub Jacuzzi; this, even though he finds himself standing in here at some point each day, attempting to shower away his exhausting [Exhaustive?] sleep. He’s not some vulgar snoring sweat-machine between the sheets, that’s not really it at all; rather, imagine how you’ll find a soft-edged shard of an old porcelain mug out in your city garden when you’re out there weeding clover – imagine how the earth is always churning itself over itself and pushing things back up to its surface, mostly inconsequential things, but artifacts nonetheless—well, Sinclearly’s slumber, implanted as it is in the paranoiac nutrients of his daylight-fumblings for the proper impudence to practice when finagling diction out of the unspeakable, roils and toils his sense of dwindling amends up to its nightly surface where it comes to rest amidst his flesh like an armed severed arm of an old plastic army figure. … Chalice moans, searches for breath, drools in his sleep. … Anyhoo, the reason he’s come to use this Jacuzzi’s soothing jets of bubbles this early Saturday afternoon is because the ripening weight of the ever-boiling delinquency he lugs around with him upon his shoulders has caused his back to begin to incessantly ache, and he’s recently been pushing house and yard chores off in an attempt to give the muscles that encircle and fortify his touchy spine some time to regain their collective audacity. He’s in this Jacuzzi because he needs to stop being a wussie about his backbone if he’s to put an end to this tending towards hillbilly that’s becoming of everything in his and his wife’s immediate surroundings. …

So, here Chalice sits; and there’s Ol’ Boy Johnson bobbing amidst the roiling, unsoaped water, its weightless, squashy shaft just below the water even with being extended a full rockin’ inch or two from the twiggy seaweed that is his still colorful man-muff. The Ol’ Johnson bobs right there, joyously, it seems, and as he keeps his eyes on him Chalice can’t help but to start a light mantra in his head: “Go cowboy, go cowboy, go cowboy.” As this cheery echoing carries on, Chalice locates, right at the cut of the water, one of his more telling distinuishers: a line of taught skin from his foreskin is still attached to the ‘shroom-cap-undercurve of the Ol’ Johnson’s noggin. Since the time his consciousness became self-encounterable Chalice has always felt that this line of skin characterizes his essence: he is marked by the circumstance of someone else’s job not being wholly executed, which means, quite paradoxically, that he is a hair’s breadth away from being wholly mutilated—he’s been scarcely, and I do mean scarcely, spared. Though he’s certainly been of the age for quite some time now in which he’s been fully capable of taking matters into his own hands and making the decision to go somewhere to have the mutilation finished, Chalice has obviously never considered it to any committed, proactive degree. This, even though whenever he has a hard-on his distinguisher becomes an added source of internal stress and unusual mistrust, appearing as it does like a too-stretched rubber band that’s about to snap at any second. … Should you ever see Chalice’s wife with a fat lip … I’m just saying.

For the past few years Chalice has been going to see this guy for his yearly checkups. He’s a younger gentleman, younger looking than Chalice, anyways, but yet with millenniums – “millenniums” as in actual ages existed through—literally millenniums of enlightenment under his origin-belt; a petite but not frail gentleman of obvious Greek decent, with a voice that’s lower and more assured than that Allstate dude’s. He’s one of them who via an ambitious and pragmatic drive have positioned themselves amongst the everyman as disappointingly beneficial intimidators – you know, one of them entities whose wages can never be fully begrudged by any Lone Wolf Poet with a functioning soul and a fully formed empathy for the continuance of memories because those entities’ overbearing inquisitions of the everyman on behalf of the overburdening models of vigor and shape and chance drive, evolutionarily speaking, the Lone Wolf Poet’s differentiation between need and want towards a more upfront perspective. … Anyhoo, each year, right after Sinclearly looks both ways with a cough, when the Greek’s lifted Ol’ Johnson to give the ol’ boy and the nutsack he road in on a good look-see, the Greek’s never failed to notice Chalice’s distinguisher; and each year, with his lips in a frown over the shaved butt-crack of his chin, his forehead in a smile above the inflexibility of his Magic Marker-ed eyebrows and just below his plunged but straight-edged and sated hairline, and his spectacles perched at the highest point of his nose’s wrinkled bridge, right there before the stretched-smooth flesh emanating from his eye sockets (with each of his facial features being appropriated by yours and my stock reaction to a reactionary state of mind), the Greek’s had the same thing to say to Chalice: “Inneresting. … Yes, inneresting, and a mere nick from perfection.” At last year’s checkup Chalice finally blurted out: “Well, blow me, Doc. That’s the real me you’re holding right there, buddy boy.” And though a tense moment of pause ensued – Sinclearly looking down, the Greek looking up – the commonality of life’s lighter purposes was mutually and quite hurriedly realized between the two men, and so humor prevailed and they shared in a genuine laugh – Chalice’s distinguisher still right there in the Greek’s grasp, wouldn’t you know. …

“Go cowboy, go cowboy, go cowboy.”

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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