“Is mozpockets not an exercise in dwelling on the past, even preventative from getting over this, getting on with your life?” a kindly stranger asked. “Yes,” I said, “perhaps, but it’s not everyday I get to channel my unhealthy obsessions into a quasi-art practice. Or is it? I’m having fun anyway.” The stranger then tastes my bicycle chain.
1) Denial. Last week we were sitting in bed. He was fickle and changeable. Easily influenced. “Yes, I am Blind, No, I can’t see.”
2) Anger. Today was the most beautiful day in 4 months. “Oh Winter Push on, Winter is so long, Winter moves on.” I took so many strange pills that were Advil.
winter’s crutch is dropped.
3) Bargaining. “And you’re always busy, really busy, busy busy, hairdresser on fire.”
My grief is shifted by the news of Corey Haim’s passing. I am surprised, alarmed by my fickle heart. Lost Boys was a fine film. I remember this. Reflect. In a mozpocket this is only bullshit. “Fuck that wastoid,” says he. “I likes Feldman better. You’re the one for me fatty!”
I am washing dishes. I am putting the key in the lock. I in bed not yet asleep, asleep, asleep, asleep.
after dickdog broke the news to me that he was leaving i got in the car and decided the first song on the radio had portent. it was joe walsh. fuck. that was followed up by new order. double fuck with a side of weeps. the first mozpocket enveloped that shit as soon as i walked in the house:
remember where you were
