|I'm a writer, not a dreamer. A straight shooter. Sometime deep thinker. Tattooed and often pissed off. 🌊 www.rdothennessy.com IG/FB = rdothennessy|
Hopefully the narration of your life will be done by Jimmy Durant; the scenes close to your heart played out in claymation and there will be a little boy screaming let the Wild Rumpus begin during something that could only happen in a twisted 1969 Christmas special.
There are cliches and there are standards. Caught in the middle, half asleep on the floor in boxer briefs with a rocks glass full of golden self loathing, there are no words. Cabin pressure has been lost, my sobriety is comprised and devolution has me searching for months old happy time pills in the couch cushions.
Door to door salesman; Beelzebub peers through a peephole in my ego. Sometimes he appears as a Dyson rep and goes as far as to split himself into a Girl Scout troop selling Thin Mints. He's patient, he knows we all crack but what he fails to realize is I keep my receipts.
I can't pretend like this is was part of the plan, I see nausea and taste the fluorescent lights journeying with me to the closest hospital in Wherever, Washington state I am. My heart rate is getting weaker, there are voices in my head saying I deserve this. My body is up for triage and my soul requires palliative care. I sing for lorazepam and morphine, just promise me one last buzz and I'll be on my way.
My heart and my brain are in a Mexican stand off. There are ten gallon hats, .38 revolvers and ironic tumbleweed abound. There's a battle for my soul and god forbid I could just get the taste of sand out of my mouth.
The sun came up with a practiced bravado and shone on me as if I were only five miles from it. Obnoxious tropical shirts and big sunglasses were the theme here, a beach in the middle of nowhere.
The ingredients were sweat, sand and whiskey... And with just a bit of pressure, a deliverance of debauchery and hangover sent direct.
I've been chasing ghosts my entire life. Whether it was my father or the man I thought I could be without him, I never got to say goodbye. Wishful thinking and tacit regrets are often laced hand in hand, unspoken words are merely a result.
My sins have coffin nails the size of skyscrapers, there is no cracking this casket seven hundred and seventy-seven feet under the dirt. The curtain will hit the cast and solipsism will be our encore... And the audience, like vultures, will devour us while understanding nothing.
I was born with my legs and arms put on the wrong way. "You can look but you just can't touch," said this mangled mind of mine as if it had been placed upside down in its conception. When you watch enough opportunities fly by you without the appropriate chance to respond, you don't mind breaking a few bones and shattering the glass to reset the clock.
Everyone has one of those things, right? The switch? The dial? The fuse box in the back of their heads that shuts everything off? If only for a few moments to strip the wires down and troubleshoot the error. We need a scalpel now, make the incision before this grey matter decays.
"Nurse, crash cart! We're losing him, we're losing him!"
A conversation with God has led me to a situation wearing a suit and tie with the devil's son. We swear at the moon, jump out of airplanes drinking goldschlager and wish just for a moment there existed a time that didn't have us here together.
God was a woman and she laughed at my plight. I'm almost certain I've bumped into this cosmic she-deity before, scorned her in some way with a love drunk grin, broken cigarette between my lips and a bottle of whiskey in hand.
There's something to say about unbound, irrevocable love. The kind that keeps the midnight oil burning and stays the demons at the door. Or, for someone in my position, invites them in and serves brunch. I say brunch because it is the ultimate testament to food. There is no greater love than to be compared to delicious food at midday. She was my brunch and as I sit here writing this, I can't help but feel that somewhere, someone is eating a stack of Belgian waffles and engaged in conversation with one of the most beautiful people they have ever laid eyes on.
When you think you've found me, I'll already be gone again. You'll see me in the billboards along your highways, the rocks that create funny faces in the side of mountains, or perhaps even in the clouds taking you wherever you are during the whenever you see them.
Give me your whiskey-drunk singing, your sinful seductions, your black eyed cover ups, your shoddy tattoos in the back rooms of wherever. Your undefinable something's are what keep the doors open and crowd rolling in, true loneliness exists when these moments stop and the contemplation begins.