Thirtieth Entry

REMINDER: I'm reading at the Ear Inn on Saturday Oct. 15th. read about it here: http://www.mbroder.com/ear_inn/index.html

Wow, thirty entries.

Today (and I think probably the next few days to come) I really don't want to think too much about things I may have done that I may feel really bad about in retrospect. I moved into my new apt. My roommate and my upstairs neighbors are kindly enough frat boys. It's getting really cold outside lately.

Here's my poem:

WHAT

He wrote to me on his stomach,
in blue marker, and he had rubbed the letters on
so hard they mixed in red and blue to bruises

“dear friend,

This will be my last communication. Also I have quit my opera training and the progressive socialists club. Also I have poured chemicals into my ears and throat. The correct question here is why. Followed by what. My answer will be unintelligible and I will find your question unintelligible. Exchange of ideas will be impossible. That is the point. After writing this, I will destroy the rest of my senses. If you consider yourself my friend you will throw a silent party in your mind for me because this is what I want. I’ll spend the rest of my young days and nights (not that I’ll know the difference) remembering things I said and did and wondering what is happening to my torso and head. DO NOT try and ‘save’ me. A bucket and a blanket is all I need and I’ve provided these for myself already. Oh, and I suppose my nose will have to go as well.

Yours,”

but he didn’t sign the letter.
And I had the hardest time remembering
who he was and why he was in my house.
And how he cut both of his hands off.
His transformation was complete.
My sister, a vet, plugged a primitive
IV into him, against my wishes.
I was curious. I wanted to see
what he was up to. And soon enough
he developed a primitive form
of code based on him hitting
his neck against his chest.
I dutifully translated and
transcribed

“dear sir,

This will be my last communication. No doubt by now you have seen what elegant tortures an artist can create for himself while in the abandoned mineshaft of the mind. I have only my own hubris to thank. I was obviously mistaken in my enterprise. DO NOT kill me, I wish to live out my days in quiet shame and imagine a better life in which I never took up the hobby of hacking limbs. In the meantime, I ‘dictate’ this as a warning to you: the senses, bad as they are, need not deprivation to plague you. Live all your days in peace and prosperity and smell as many hot sandwiches as you can.

Yours,”