Mister Micawber

The Single Man at Table 3

His foliated thoughts wallow across the quiet swells of a hot sea, balanced with the salts of a coelenterate, tentacles waving, weaving, wavering in ionic limbo. Guyed by long and sinuous molecules, seduced by the tangled filaments of organic decay, like sea leaves they rise and languidly fall, slowly separating by quire and sheet, hovering like underinflated balloons.


The tender dissolution of ink and fiber fades like a long goodbye from a slow freighter. A decoction of vowels, of howls, a disembowelment by consonantal drift. Refracted all askew, it says, then doesn't say, retracts its words, extracts their virtues, defies the lens. An '0' floats like an eye dead from its socket.  A 'G' unravels its serif like an expended sperm thrashing goallessly.  'D' squats and mopes.  Diphthongs, dim things in a maelstrom, swivel guilelessly into their elements.  The reader's seasick? Mal de mer?  The Sea's Evil, undermining while uplifting, the Devil's dead sea daughter calls from the blackness of cold coffee to protest the lack of equilibrium, the emptiness.

The man at table three silently acquiesces to the importunities of his waitress's busy carafe. She dandles it in her rounds like a child, like love proffered. Her breasts protrude with promises.  Mother's milk: a self-test in habitry.

On a flight of fancy, a reverie the color of cream, now faded to a remembered smile, the last of a happiness, white teeth dissolving in a pinwheel, caterwauling to chocolate brown. Remembrance the play of an oil film on mental waters, swirling and eddying in bright memories a molecule thick. Stirred into the catherine wheel of thought, appearing to disappear within its own center but reforming from the edges of ether, a nebula as great as God's. A dizzying process, entrancing to the least susceptible of a mesmerist's subjects. It is an addiction of the moving mind, weakened by dreams and lulled into wide-eyed wonder at a hopeful world resurrected as surely as the dead Christ from that sad bloodied corpse entombed by yesterday. A euphoric Hallelujah from the cretinous grin of a newborn child, the revelry of all things new, shining with placental slime, umbilical, unsevered, undead again.

A decade cannot change the syllabary, the monkish refectory paced noiselessly, incensed by ten more years of wordlessness, only the echo of a chanting, a hollow droning of todays, an echoed coming of tomorrows – and what could be more right?

Hello, my bestial beginnings! Do you not miss your immediacy? Do you not miss your sleep, your blood, your random ejaculations into an immediate universe?

Hello, the morrow! Who are you? Why do you disturb my rest, my self, my preteroccupations? Away, away, excoriate!  You are unnatural, you are an artifact of synapses supernumerary, reflexes redundant, here where there are no limbs to brachiate, sins to expiate, exegeses to expurgate!

What a distance we have run!  I love you, my bestial beginnings, as I loved the child that kissed me before I knew my sex. It was a lust unbounded by civilization, unfettered by forebears, an unredeemed promise for tomorrow that was only our yesterday longing for resurrection in a lost world.

Bill, please.