sky with single small cloud

I'm Here on the Earth
David Kornblatt

I have a magnifying glass. There’s a chance I’ll get crucified for being who I pretend to be. I mean we are all just piles of our own senses. I am using it all the time because I’m too cheap to afford glasses. So I walk around like some kind of Mr. Magoo-esque character. I’m old and I’m remembering what I used to be. My name is Hazardous Joe. I ruminate about all the lustful thoughts I have about twenty-five or less year old women. It seems to me that existence is nothing more than one giant strip club on speed. Come on little one do you want to waste my money and my time. Life is tax free and pointless. We are all just endless piles of sex and violence. “You and I live in a Nietzschean world of only pleasure and pain. I’m 62 years old right now and I’m trying to figure out what in my life has meaning.” This is true in a world where as a man I increasingly feel as though I am helpless and hapless. I have worked in a diner cooking hash, potatoes and greasy pancakes for people I don’t know or want to know. When I was a cook I always thought “Why do I continue to do this?” “I certainly don’t earn enough from this.”

What does it mean? Come on I’ll give you twenty five dollars if you get on my lap and allow me to feel your breasts and fifty dollars if I can feel your whole naked body.

Strip clubs are peculiar because they give a bullshit illusion of sex at exorbitant prices. Hey don’t be offended, no one has died here. I’m only engaging in petit prostitution. It’s on a very small level.

I live in a tiny house, I am way behind. I try to keep up with the news. I take a nap. There’s magnetic magic all around. I’ll say yes I do opiates in my small castle.

I love the crescent moon. I have a future. I mean where’s my orgy of wealth? When is my time going to occur? I know beer drinking is bad for you. I keep drinking, maybe trying to find the elixir of youth at the bottom of each bottle. This neighbor gave me a gun because he said it would protect me. I’m introducing this now because my other neighbor said it was the only way to create drama in this story. It is a Panzer Lufthansa, a rare gun that the Nazi Germans only made five hundred copies of. It probably is something that I later will be shot with. It seems to me that there weren’t as many sickos around when I was kid in the nineteen fifties. But I don’t know. I have heard it takes a psychotic to know one. I mean I’ve lived an entire life where those around me called me “less than dirt”. It takes over eighty seven years to live this embarrassment of a jaunt we call life and every year it keeps getting worse. It is a fool, who believes that his existence will get better.

"Aren’t you scared?" I asked people as I walked around from village to dell in the middle of the Los Angles basin. I have lived a great fantasy life, I mean a cognitive dissonance kind of life. I would stop and look of the sky. I would see the blues which looked like giant white streaks across white icing all over a newly baked pastry. His eyes were this color too. I at one time had curly blonde hair but now it has turned to a shitty brown. I remembered when I lived in a different city what it was like to live in a three story bed-sit and sit on the edges of his grey painted wood flooring, waiting for her call that he knew would never come. There were mouse brains splattered all over the place from my constant use of steel mouse traps. They were effective, but they made an elaborate carnage on his living room floor. It was a great time in my life for me but now that was over. I had a number of girlfriends and they were great for simply one thing. Lost time. All the lost years of his youth, where he couldn’t get a date… Now he was important like fucking Joan Goddamn Collins or for God’s sake like a little Elvis Presley. It was crazy I could have sex with anyone and everyone. All those years of wondering like, what it was to be the most important man who ever lived. I mean all the scores of humanity that just wants to be loved. I’m just trying to wreck the fucking car he thought as he made some tea on his General Electric stove. Still most people didn’t like him so he was busy trying to kill himself. Maybe he watched Harold and Maude too many times? But by today's standards he thought, “Hal Ashby was an anachronism.” You ever meet with an old friend and he starts talking to you and you realize why you haven’t talked to him in so long? I am incredibly boring and every important word he has to utter is pure rubbish. It is interminable. It is insufferable.