As I lay worrying, the song continues in my head. The guitar drifts downward and the notes, they speak to me. They tell me how to drive. They tell me how to turn. When to be. How to be. What to be. Just do it once and turn away.
I reawaken in a preternatural state and I ask myself, “Am I dreaming?” But, no, I’m not. I looked. I tried to see. But I couldn’t. I tried to make it discreet, but I couldn’t. I tried to shake the feeling but I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I tried to calm the voice of the darkness encroaching as I smiled, but I couldn’t.
*I* couldn’t, but maybe you could. For me. Just quiet. Just spread your legs wide open and quiet it for me. Just do it once and turn away. Just answer me when I ask if I’m dreaming. I know not what I do, what I say, where I am.
As I lay unlocked and dreaming, carried back 17 years to an unreality, I smile. I laugh. I laugh at myself looking at Penthouse mags in the bookstore and the matronly clerk was too shy to say anything, though I’m sure my boner was visible. I smile. It’s unreal, I think, it thinks, it is, but the book was gone. Stolen. And now it wasn’t funny any more. Now you have to understand. Those damned atheists! They’re ruining this country!
Just do it once and turn away.
Now, forward, dredged in the memories of the event, saturated in the timeliness of it all, drunk on the self-satisfaction of it all. Of me. Of you.
As I lay dying, in a car accident, at 72, time stretches towards infinity as I regress. As I refuse to reconsider. As I go towards the light. Just do it once and turn away.