.

I erect a mountain

When I think of you and your fiery eyes

Like an endless chasm of

Dark, gray realizations

In the eyes of jaded professors

On the impossibility of happiness

And the rapture laced into danger and

All the while

I should just

Slug

.

Onto that mole hill

I perceive with my

Destitute afternoon consciousness

And call it a day

Sometimes I think about the interface of life

And how sometimes we seem like a deadened

Terrarium museum exhibit

And then sometimes the overall enterprise

Seems to breathe with fire and issue

Corridors of ingenuous authenticity,

.

With sleep undeniably falling in that latter category as

We could easily be continually functioning droids

That required no departure from consciousness for reparation

But we are made like this

Because that is what is real —

.

The qualitative nature of thoughts

And the readied disposition

Given life by a dark unconscious

.

And the tapestry of all of us

Infused by dreams,

Which sometimes seem like just an anchor

From concerned parties trying to

Recommune with us in the afterlife.

I sit here now

On March 22

And think about the inappropriateness

Of humming “Valentine and Garuda”

By Frank Black and the Catholics

As songs are only good for two seasons —

Soul Coughing’s “Soft Serve” good for winter and spring and

“Valentine and Garuda” good for fall and winter

.

Where the brown leaves might fall

By the St. Mary’s lake

To get buried under leagues of brown sludge

As if in New Jersey

.

Or you might shelter from the snow

In the bar where the slim bartender

Talks to you and makes your day

.

And down the street

You see that little girl

Who used to work at the grocery store

Now bartending, all grown up and saying she’d

“Rather bang Patrick Mahomes”

Than Aaron Rodgers,

.

Looking straight into your eyes and

You realize

You’re alive

And

.

This is

What people do to

Meditate

.

Before

The central heat,

Electric Lighting,

.

Steaming water and

General house-of-cards opportunism

Of it all.

The nice black man

Sits in his car

On Twyckenham

Gazing at the clear,

Amber March sunset

And on his face is neither victory

Nor defeat

Nor any type of physiognomy

Reflecting a self-concept

But solely absorption of the scene

Which to me looks like a lie

But to him is a pile of

Lemon meringue pies

Being flanked by downy

Sheep with lutes

And that my friends is truth

The city is as if

A sea of denigration

Where want and need

Are the formative traits,

The founding priorities,

And reality is just a

Ream of needy eyes,

Whites,

Little round daggers

Giving way

To the pallid entropy

Of stone-faced,

Elevated drivers and

Restaurants that they have everywhere

In the nation

Just a second ago, a Jersey Mike’s commercial came on the TV. I’ve never been to a Jersey Mike’s in my life but they seem to be doing pretty well these days, judging by the prevalence of their ad campaign. I must say, though, the sandwiches featured in the video bore a striking resemblance to those of Blimpie, a submarine sandwich chain we used to have here in northern Indiana as the primary competitor of Subway. Now this title of runner up probably goes to Jimmy John’s, obviously, another probable factor in Blimpie’s denigration of store volume.

I mean, is there actually something about Jersey Mike’s that’s better than Blimpie’s? I have to admit, that oregano was like glistening in the wind with some serious fervor. Or maybe people just like saying a restaurant with “Jersey” in the name and answering the question of “What would you like to order?” with “You talkin’ to me?”

Blimpie’s was basic. Sure. It was just sub sandwiches, chips, cookies and pop. I literally think that’s all we had in the whole store (I worked at one part time the summer before my senior year in high school). From what I remember, we didn’t even have any wraps. I suppose this led to its retraction too. But then, sub sandwiches are freakin’ everywhere. Now, in the South Bend area, in addition the “big two” of Subway and Jimmy John’s, there’s Penn Station (the undeniable titan, in my opinion), Potbelly, the aforementioned Jersey Mike’s, Which Wich and Portillo’s — all regional or national chains with bustling stores in or around town.

The demand for the product is obvious, in other words, which makes you wonder what went wrong with the Blimpie franchise, which I believe started in New York City (actually I think the Beastie Boys talk about going to one in “An Open Letter to NYC”). Like Jersey Mike’s, Blimpie didn’t toast the bread — it was just cold meats piled onto fluffly loaves, for the most part, and a little oven for whipping up things like chicken and bacon.

One noteworthy little bit of lore, anyway, that my boss told me while I was working at the Blimpie back in 2001, was that all of Subway’s meats are actually 65% turkey, with the exception of the turkey, of course, which would be 100%. Looking back on the Blimpie menu and product line, I can’t help but ruminate on how it really covered all the bases — ham, bacon, turkey, roast beef, capicola, salami, Italian meatball (the meatballs were held hot in sauce on the line, ready to go) and I think a veggie offering as well as a veggie patty. What more could you want in a quick, stop-and-go lunch diner? Everything was sliced fresh, including a variety of cheeses, and another thing I liked is that they offered six-inch or footlong, one catering to my mom and sister during our visits and the other my usual choice, especially after a soccer game and such.

Now, it’s like the foundation has been yanked out from under me. I go in a Subway, for instance, and though I generally enjoy their products decently I have that annoying knowledge that all their lunch meat is 65% turkey (I usually opt for the tuna, anyway). They have this irksome gaggle of breads to choose from, none of which really ever seem to hit the spot, contrasted sharply against the Blimpie menu which just had that one white bread that was perfect, unchangeable and baked to a flawless crisp, with no toasting required. I have to look at all these stupid options like pizza, buffalo chicken and wraps and I just think, can we go back to Adam and Eve?

Plus, my boss at Blimpie was really funny, which I suppose isn’t really to my point but is amusing to mention nonetheless. One time I accidentally threw this dirty pan into the sanitizing water instead of the detergent water and he goes, “Little mayonnaise floaties!” He would rib this one college girl who was home for the summer about her alcohol consumption down at IU: “She’s a lush… she pigs out.” And I mean, I got to work with that ultra-cute IU girl and also this stoner chick from Oregon who played a Sublime tape and always knew when the next Umphrey’s McGee show at the Mishawaka Brew Pub was going to be. Now I don’t have any of these things anymore — the Blimpie’s, the brew pub, the stoner chick, the Umphrey’s shows — and I AM the beer-guzzling curmudgeon. Well, at least you can see why, now.

I wouldn’t mind seeing that guy and seeing what he’s up to even though he recedes every time he’s around me — gets nervous and laughs and such. But I did just hear him profess things with a directness to another type he’s around a lot — one he knows better and might be inclined to poking a fish in its bowl or setting a paper plate on fire, if he had the chance.

And he’s got three brothers. While I’m at it, I might as well confer with all four of them and propagate a race of beings always in positive motion. Well, they all wield stark, adamant distinctions to each other, with one talking about shooting up a house, one in law school, one proud and one prouder, and it’s true that I’ve never imagined the situation of having identity heaped onto you every day, every day, like wet, mildewy clothes that you’d trade and replace with a coat of cactus snow if you could, the better for your blood to course through your veins feeding you tiger venom and swagger.

I didn’t put any music on

Because there was a wedding going on outside

And I thought about the wedding

And I thought,

Well,

If that were me getting married,

I would want everything to be just right —

I wouldn’t want some random dude picking the music

And playing some song about looking at a girl’s a**

Or something

And it was pretty quiet, around the day

And not everybody was in the best mood

But we got through it

And at the end of the day

I was sweeping the cook’s line

And I felt your presence, somehow

And I glanced over and

You were standing listlessly,

Resting your elbows on the table

Where the sous chef was cutting cake

To go out to the wedding guests.

.

You stretched your body out

So your behind stuck up and out

And it was shameful how we went on with the day and

It was shameful how I liked you for that,

For how you fell against the table,

For the animal it brought out in me and

In order to get back to me

I’m going to have to mythologize,

Which is a weakness women perceive in men

And see, most clearly.

.

But I think about how you’re a perfectionist.

.

Virgin girls are perfectionists.

.

And you feel ugly and you see ugliness.

.

I feel that about you.

.

And when you believe,

Your eyes light up,

Or sometimes your body forms a sensual shape

Which is just

Your gods trying to give something of you

To a world that has no idea how to accept something

So perfect.

It once went without saying

That all the freaks and weirdos

Were included in the music,

In the spirit of the music,

Because what was really weird was

The setting of the sun,

The binary of the human sexes,

The myth of cooperation,

The oblivion to pain and the

Apathy to someone else’s

The birds are out there singing.

.

They sing with each other.

.

It’s hard to tell

Which one starts it,

But one will commence the cadence

.

And then another one will join in,

Chirping right after the other one,

In rhythm,

Hence spawning a chirp from the other one,

.

Or one of the other ones,

To be exact.

.

They remind me of a ska punk band, actually.

.

Then, the uncanny thing is that

They’ve designated one bird, which

.

I think is

The one with the highest-pitched chirp,

To man the coda responsibilities,

And emit a series of identical chirps

To end the final cadence.

.

This final bird, the first time,

Emitted three chirps.

.

The next time,

The birds did the same thing,

And the final one put out seven chirps.

.

One, time he did four,

One time, five,

One time, six,

But not in that order,

And never fewer than three,

And never more than seven.

.

And the sad thing is,

I know what they’re doing,

And I feel like I’ve lost the ability to do that,

Myself.

.

But then,

That’s what pedagogy’s for.