for your patience, mr x, i thank you. for your celebrity profile, your stardom, your weird simplicity to pursue and follow an interest, it is no easy feat. drinking, night after night, in the olive tavern, tipsy and confused, shy yet raucous, boisterous and pensive, in the chiffon of your intelligent industry, we have known, gotten closer, loved and hated. flirted and danced, eyed and smiled, dolled up, feigned ignorance, faked business, spun a reel of lies and quasi-truths, in the tavern on jane street. a quaint remembrance of the beatrice inn, i wasn't there. i never saw. you never slept. but you said those were the days of bliss. in the Bea, it was a soul phenomenon.
but the Bea is gone, and you have returned to the mundane of your storytelling, and stock broking. unhappy sometimes, stylized sometimes. you fuck drags now, with green hair and purple tongues. you want to talk about success, sometimes. the definition. the Americanism attached. the yardstick of the dollar, irrespective of the knowledge base, the data base, the idyllic. when did this equation flip switch into a materialistic outcome? a generous shrug to the quest for human purpose, but now you trade. and only care for those who queer in banks. to have come from a farm, i wanted gold, you said. gold, to prove to your kin and kind, the value of your potential, not your intellect. you refrained, you feared, frightened and nervous. i remember meeting first, your hands shaking, soul trembling, words escaping your shoddy shields. you said to me, i don't think i'll make it here. it's a psychic nostalgia of the familiar. your family mattered, despite the abuse, the peril, the dissolution and the dissipation. breaking ways, and parting souls. your hopes that died with inhumation of a love triangle. to disease your fallback, i'm sure it hurt. when you were alone, in the solitary insular. you may have cried, and charred in your discomfort. embarrassed to admit, i am alone. i didn't make it. yet, is key. but how long? for many months, ride your struggles. i have told you, time to time, push yourself to the breaking point. feel the fissure of the deep chasmic soul separatist. to dissolve in your blood humor and admit to yourself the melody of a reconstruction. who said it was easy? believe in no ultimata that comes from your reconaissance. to urge the belief in the theatricality and non-actuality of the characters in your life. yours, and yours alone.
look at birth. you came alone, festooning humanity through the singularity of your presence. yet delivered into a trove of the socialized animal. you grow in the neighborhood of the human, and non-actuaries. woebegone camaraderie and irresistible hate-mongers. casting and remolding, curling and enchanting, pacing and fleeting, groping and heaving, delving, scrutinizing, burrowing and digging, deeper and deeper and deeper into the depth of depths of what does it mean to be me? in the roots of this depth, which branch is of the superior? the maternity, the sexuality, the identity, the existentialism? what it is to become the man or woman of soul-commerce, of self-trade, of self-value. what is the value of yourself mr x? what is the value of your experience and nomenclature that your social cage refused to provide. do you regret, this calligraphy of the Bea? the metonymy of your life today -mr x, the town man, is the successful of sorts? a self-success, i ask. not the one that permeates, oozes, and exudes from the architecture of your brownstone. not the success that brings you the disability of macrocosmic impecuniosity, or for that matter, a charisma of the braggart. the success, that you made. at the Bea, by the move. by the hinge and the thrust of your soul-searching dissatisfaction. you bit your tongue, and cloaked your fears, caressed your nerves, and held your head, shaved your disappointments to recognize the singularity in death, a fatalistic simulacrum of your self-other multi-collage. this verbal banter is not to decide, but to oust. to try the test of a new provenance. to run away from your rooted presence, to lift your legs into a vicious unknown, to distort your satiety cage of the familiar, welled in fear, in angst and verve, in trepidation and love, in hesitation and pleas, and dive into the depth of me. to re-begin an I.
but the Bea is gone, and you have returned to the mundane of your storytelling, and stock broking. unhappy sometimes, stylized sometimes. you fuck drags now, with green hair and purple tongues. you want to talk about success, sometimes. the definition. the Americanism attached. the yardstick of the dollar, irrespective of the knowledge base, the data base, the idyllic. when did this equation flip switch into a materialistic outcome? a generous shrug to the quest for human purpose, but now you trade. and only care for those who queer in banks. to have come from a farm, i wanted gold, you said. gold, to prove to your kin and kind, the value of your potential, not your intellect. you refrained, you feared, frightened and nervous. i remember meeting first, your hands shaking, soul trembling, words escaping your shoddy shields. you said to me, i don't think i'll make it here. it's a psychic nostalgia of the familiar. your family mattered, despite the abuse, the peril, the dissolution and the dissipation. breaking ways, and parting souls. your hopes that died with inhumation of a love triangle. to disease your fallback, i'm sure it hurt. when you were alone, in the solitary insular. you may have cried, and charred in your discomfort. embarrassed to admit, i am alone. i didn't make it. yet, is key. but how long? for many months, ride your struggles. i have told you, time to time, push yourself to the breaking point. feel the fissure of the deep chasmic soul separatist. to dissolve in your blood humor and admit to yourself the melody of a reconstruction. who said it was easy? believe in no ultimata that comes from your reconaissance. to urge the belief in the theatricality and non-actuality of the characters in your life. yours, and yours alone.
look at birth. you came alone, festooning humanity through the singularity of your presence. yet delivered into a trove of the socialized animal. you grow in the neighborhood of the human, and non-actuaries. woebegone camaraderie and irresistible hate-mongers. casting and remolding, curling and enchanting, pacing and fleeting, groping and heaving, delving, scrutinizing, burrowing and digging, deeper and deeper and deeper into the depth of depths of what does it mean to be me? in the roots of this depth, which branch is of the superior? the maternity, the sexuality, the identity, the existentialism? what it is to become the man or woman of soul-commerce, of self-trade, of self-value. what is the value of yourself mr x? what is the value of your experience and nomenclature that your social cage refused to provide. do you regret, this calligraphy of the Bea? the metonymy of your life today -mr x, the town man, is the successful of sorts? a self-success, i ask. not the one that permeates, oozes, and exudes from the architecture of your brownstone. not the success that brings you the disability of macrocosmic impecuniosity, or for that matter, a charisma of the braggart. the success, that you made. at the Bea, by the move. by the hinge and the thrust of your soul-searching dissatisfaction. you bit your tongue, and cloaked your fears, caressed your nerves, and held your head, shaved your disappointments to recognize the singularity in death, a fatalistic simulacrum of your self-other multi-collage. this verbal banter is not to decide, but to oust. to try the test of a new provenance. to run away from your rooted presence, to lift your legs into a vicious unknown, to distort your satiety cage of the familiar, welled in fear, in angst and verve, in trepidation and love, in hesitation and pleas, and dive into the depth of me. to re-begin an I.
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