The Diary of Mitch R. Singer

On the city streets, in the market square, the people drinking themselves into oblivion
The drummer boy and I play our sad songs of despair coated in warm layers of fuzz, but no one seems to care. No one ever seems to care; that is a theme in my life. My fingers make the chords and my voice brays out the lyrics. They drink their liquor and move their jaws. One woman comes up to us in between songs and asks if we can turn down. I spit in her face. Does she not realize that we are the only things living in this entire block? Can she not see the vagrants wandering the street? Who shall be their street prophet if not me? Who will tell their stories? Afterwards, they pay us in beer and monopoly money. I walk into an alley and am never heard from again.

In a mechanic's shop, waiting to hear bad news
I've taken my car in because it has a rattle like death's bones. I speak to a man covered in tattoos who will not look me directly in the eyes. That's okay; I don't like his shifty gaze, nor do I approve of the color of his eyes. In the waiting room there is a stuffed turkey, an enormous bird, the titan of his race. Someone has plucked out his eyes and replaced them with marbles. When my mechanic tells me the price for the repair, I think of that bird. Suddenly I realize that God is our taxidermist.

In my car, listening to NPR
Outside, the rain falls on my windshield, painting a dismal picture, a smeared visage of melancholy. The radio host speaks of the fall of nations; I wonder how long it has taken them to realize that we are all falling, all of the time. I see a dead fox on the side of the road, its black leggings covered in mud. The radio begs for contributions, but I keep on driving. There is no choice in the matter. We have to reach our destination.

On my couch, a notebook in my hands, the television my noisy master
I glance at the white paper in my lap, trying to will it to write itself. On the screen, nerd stereotypes bicker and drink endless bottles of wine. The cat comes down after awhile, its call a steady moan, a prayer for release. I look at the gut growing out of me. We are not the people we think we are. Everyone else is right.