Sticky Table Blues

It must be in my nature to relish how the sting feels. So I sit here and prick the scab til the blood dries numb over some sort of memory I used to have. Some might say I had it all, and looking back now, it was the best excuse to keep it all. So I sit here and I, I, I play this stupid game where I imagine myself somewhere else, somewhere good, somewhere bad, some place anywhere but here. And most of the time it works.I, I, I am somewhere warm and cold, where the sun shines ice on my frosted bikini tan line, where my beer boils over in its froth and I, I, I realize I will never be happy. Should I have a kingdom of gold, a chest of ivory stone and a head full of Freudians, Marxists, Tocquevilles and Arendts, I, I, I will always wonder at why I is just I. The most remarkably average, fantastically simple arms and legs, body and eyes. I, I, I have learnt to grow with contempt, not content.

The table is sticky and dark, like the black continent of a woman's love, or the actual black continent where white guilt pillages the villages of small huts and farms. Either way, today here am I, in the black continent, only with love, without violence, without purpose. Full of resolve. The tip of my nose sings numb when I flex it, at some points I can see my own breath. But perhaps I am better preserved this way. The table sticks to my elbows like a leech's stomach does to some sort of prey, but what kind of subsistence it should receive, I would like to know. I am just hollow and flavorless as the next automaton but perhaps someone in this deal will find the truth. For now I sit here, at the sticky table, looking studious, pretending I am contemplating the meaning in life when really...I'm learning to accept that maybe, I have none.