UNDERGROUND VOICES MAGAZINE/MICHAEL J GARRETT

MICHAEL J GARRETT

A drop in the bucket

I look around at a world without absolutes, a world I am not sure is worth
saving, and for that matter, worth dying for. I am no martyr, but somehow I
feel sacrificed, born to bear witness and be slaughtered before the eyes of
millions. There are no millions, there are no wolves, only wolves in sheep's
wool. They all have weaknesses, only some more readily available. I tucked
mine deep beneath skin that is scarred and burned, hidden under the thin
layer of skin that covers the muscle loosely wrapping bone, all of which
conceal the mystery and sinister vileness which courses through the veins
that feed it all. And so I feed it as well, stuffing and pushing and shoving
and punching it into an oblivion that is sweet for all of 15 seconds before
the shit hits the fan.

Oblivion that I miss so because I now have to deal with life on life's terms
without resentment, bitterness. Still witness to the decay, powerlessness,
suburban sprawl infringing upon my soul as the people inch their way into
my life without regard for who I was, where I have been, and where I intend
to go (which is still very much in the air, and as far as intentions go, I
don't think I have intended anything…ever. Only dreamed and fell far short).

It occurs to me that I am not a man, that I have no story, only a volume of
anecdotes in puzzle form to be pieced together by some poor soul who
happens to stumble upon it long after I am gone. Shreds of indignity and
particles of pity, translucent truths and indulgent insolence couple with
craziness, insanity the co-morbidity of my walking calamity…search for your
soul brother. Aren't you missing something? Doesn't it matter that you have
all their work and you can make it better yet you have yet to produce one
yourself? Sure. I just don't give a fuck. Or at least not like you do. Why is
everyone so fucking concerned about me when I am not concerned about me.
I am simple. Airway. Clear it, cough, hack, clear. Breath in, hold slightly,
exhale used air. Allow blood to circulate what was taken from the used air
before we used and recycle the good stuff, the green gas doubled molecule
atomically correcting my imperfections. Other than that, I don't have to do
a fucking thing, and my body seems to, for the most part, take care of that
for me. I just need to ensure that I don't do anything to stop it from doing
so.

I have seen the face of death a thousand times over. I proclaim myself
neither hero, nor adversary. I am not your saint, your role model, or
someone to look up to in any way, shape, or form. I am a survivor, but I have
failed to thrive in survival and seem to never have the bravado to step away
from living day to day and staying alive moment to moment. I am on lots of
shit lists, and I am sure death has it in for me too. I think God just wants
me to suffer. Or make me do something that only rarely do I want to do, and
even rarer, feel I can actually do.

I saved a life once. Wasn't that enough?

Or do you have to repay…………

I can make heads or tails of nothing; some of it is crystal clear, as though
it was yesterday. For the most part, my memories are a muddle of mud and
puddle themselves in the wells of my soul that I refuse to reach, refuse to
climb out of, refuse to reuse. I read today that serenity only comes when we
stop fighting. Other people, things, places, ideas, what is within ourselves
somehow keeping us alive and giving us the will to keep going on, the things
that keep us together, the things that allow us to endure the dirty weather,
and all that rush through my head telling me that I am indeed a dirty
person, tainted, depressed in the physical sense, dementia and demented at
once co-joined to deny myself. No shit. Stop fighting and you will know
serenity. How can I stop fighting when it has kept me alive this long? Given
a choice between alive and serene I choose serene any day of the week,
trouble is I have to die in order to get there. Is the path as I believe it to
be? Are we chosen, or tainted? Broken or beyond? Tomorrow may never
come, but it always fucking does. Always. I wish it wouldn't, but it does,
and I am still living and there is nothing I can do about it, because I am a
coward. A withering writhing coward. Liars. Tomorrow always comes. Fucking
liars. People like me simply aren't lucky enough. Left to my own devices, I
don't do very well. Left to others, I just end up with a terminal case of rage,
forever the fury that furiously rises into intolerable toleration and at some
point becomes a way of life. Fact is, you can punch your way through glass,
no matter how bitter you become, and that is what it all is, this life-
glass. So I punch, and I bleed, and I punch and I bleed, and I punch
and I bleed….and bleeding is no longer a comfort.