Don Wan

Some day you will find me    Anyone whose sickness degradation or humiliation has assumed insufferable proportions inevitably does    Here on the smoky floor of the crater    beside a stagnant silver pool    You will find me    Be forewarned    my anemia makes my right leg twitch    My hair is powdered    I refuse to bathe    I oil    A few times a day or night whatever shade of Time it may be I bend down to lick the silvery waters like a cat    return to my velvet sofa limp and venomous to congeal     My remaining teeth are greenish grey    To grind them gives me pleasure    I have severed mostly from any sense of connection with my digestive tract    I inhale air exhale smoke    I admit I’ve found my more high strung visitors to be an inexhaustible source of energy    Lately I have tried to be more reticent having led a few endearingly off kilter ones astray    Teenage counter tenors from the Ohio Valley    Goth offspring of semi pro golf instructors    The rabbit souled    Shivering be bop clarinetists     Method actors from strict Methodist counties    Six foot two suburban Emily Dickinsons    I loved the unloved most of all    I still wish to tend to them to carry their lunchboxes to run their baths for them    Regrettably my reputation within certain scorned circles demands constant upkeep    These circles overlap    Word spreads fast    Especially among the Wan    And the Orphic    And so I strive to ensure a delicate professional boundary between my beloved visitors and I    much as it betrays my affinity for inflammable impulse    Why adolescents predominantly find me is no mystery    They have more receptive antennae’s    drawn like moths to my languid slurred aura which masks my genius for dismantling psyches within seconds    Most come in need of some kind of commiseration    Don Wan they say lips chapped eyes neon white    Don Wan I am eternally internally half way to the moon    Don Wan do you think I will ever have an unstuffed nose again    Don Wan I am in love with my doppelganger’s wife    Don Wan every morning I wake on stilts dressed in harlequin rags in the airport security line    Don Wan since drinking the cabbage wine I have failed the law exam three times    Don Wan please send me back to Dijon for the American continent is cursed its children are madmen and there’s not a moment’s relief    Don Wan Don Wan    DON WAN    It is not hard to get to the bottom of each conundrum    An unripe self possession coupled with perpetual self doubt can leave a sensitive lad or lass in a spiral susceptible to all forms of libertinism    It is no wonder since most have had their elders’ cursed illusions stapled into them from an early age    Even you as you read this will likely come looking    Or maybe you already have    There should be no shame in it    Really it doesn’t matter how old you are    Let’s be frank    Despite all appearances you are just as freakishly underdeveloped    In the Deep Time cavern of things you are every bit as much a whimpering mole    a perverse master of camouflage    You have tried this and that to unhinge yourself from your plasticity your minor plagiarisms petty flip flopping your convoluted love of status weak kneed self effacing lip service to University faculty government granting bodies condo board members your wriggling out of paying the fine while simultaneously self justifying contradicting backtracking in one breath all stemming from your cursed liberal arts conditioning which prevents you from confronting the serpentine silhouettes that have taken shelter in the squat of your solar plexus    You continue to deaden yourself in ever thinning pleasures    watery local wines slow cooking of gourds snowshoeing the raising of more acidic children and other artificial addictions that sap you of your purest essence    You get drunk to the same derivative music of your youth and in the morning flip through Architectural Digest on the toilet    Despite all these attempts to presume airs of matured refinement you are still an uncouth nose ringed purple haired adolescent    Which makes you and all the rest that visit such easy prey    Don’t roll your eyes     I have read many an Indian Vedic philosopher    All this think and brood means little in the grand cosmic depository of things    All of us must become one of November’s discarded pumpkins     All of us shall trespass daily our own inner cemetery    All of us botch their Icarus flight and shlep to the nearest mall five minutes before closing in search of a very specific Swedish brand of soother    If you haven’t yet found your pit you certainly will and one thing leading to another you will find me    I remember one hunched ashen lad    He was going on fifty but had the air of a sixteen year old    An old boy you might say    I almost had to sit him on my knee braid his hair and rub his belly    He came trembling but I soon put him right    How did you get here you frail fallopian Faust I asked him    As directed I climbed the one grass hill in Spotsylvania County with a moviehouse on top he said   The old boy’s teeth were chattering    He was unable to look into the black licorice abyss of my eyes   And    I questioned   I opened the moviehouse’s glass doors and saw a domed meteor crater lit by thin cracks of light    I grabbed hold of the rope and lowered myself down the crater side into a sour incense fog    It took an hour to reach the lagoon floor    A canoe filled with tiny white pumpkins took me along a cavernous stream to you    Don Wan fix me I am at your mercy    I shook the old boy’s hand limply    Congratulated him on his bravado    Offered him a wafer and a glass of port    We talked about the plague   How it had infested his peers and nearly ruined him too    How he had listened to the wrong ones been bitten by those he had most admired falling headlong under their manipulations barely scraping out from under the barb wired fence of their false influence    Thirty years later the old boy was still paying the price    daily reflecting on his chronic misguidedness with a grief that was gnawing his innards into wet ashes    I told him to look into the pool and tell me what he saw    Yes Don Wan    The old boy walked to the edge and leaned over     I see the moviehouse on the hill    History of Jazz on the marquee    A teenage girl with short sandy blond hair and a faint mustache is standing outside the locked tinted doors    We are side by side staring at the dry meadows    She is saying something to me    Poetry    Do you like it she is saying    Here have my book    She’s handing her book to me   Well answer her I told him    Yes I like poetry    I can’t live without it    the old boy said to the mustached girl     What’s book’s title I asked him    Eternal Teenagers in the Town of Eternal Twilight     She’s walking around the moviehouse    Go with her I told him    Where said the old boy    To that incandescent Town old boy    And like all the rest the old boy slipped into the pool

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