I Should Get Up

I came home and threw myself on the couch, defeated and deservingly enervated. The day had drilled its devilish talons in my derriere and I exhaled relieved knowing this day, Sunday, was my “Friday.” Franz Schubert showed me his frenzied showmanship in maddening melodies as I kicked my cowboy boots off. Breathed like a morphined monk…rubbed the tension on the back of my skull tentatively, closing my eyes in grunting grimace. Breathed some more.

Sometimes I don’t feel like composing another song for the band I play in. Sometimes the band you play in doesn’t want you and you know it intuitively. The ten-speed stares at you tempting you to embark on the trail near your home…to smell the dying leaves, to smell the cold bite of winter on freshly rained dirt, to see the bunnies bouncing beside the bicycle. The typewriter turns slowly and gives you the eyes. The paintbrush shifts in its place. The camera you spend thousands of dollars clamors inside a pitch-black closet like a gagged girl taken by criminals demanding too high a ransom.

 

I should get up, I thought. Do something productive…create something, seize the fucking day. Even do the damn dishes. Call some broad to come do my laundry. But I don’t want to do that. I want to sit here on the couch, my cock and balls warm and cozy nestled betwixt my thighs free from the cutting cold outside. Kick on some Kubrick or some motherfucking Sierra Madre, which I have been trying to get to.

 

 

A hot shower would be great. Or a banana shake. I can make those now. A young blonde birdy taught me how.

 

I still have to lift some weights. Girls like nice arms, I hear.

 

 

Maybe I’ll just cheat at working hard and write about these thoughts instead.

∞