riotwalker blues 9.72: the finale

By a trick of the light I thought I saw someone else worth living for. I was hung over, so I figured fuck it, I might as well go for broke and give my world away. I stand here as the romance of everything I ever wasn’t. I’ve lost too many things to think I could own myself. I’ve been stripped down to the man I always was. It took me twenty-two years to write a poem. I read it to no one. I remain silent. I forgot my party hat at home, so I refuse to raise toasts.

I threw myself on the floor once, begging the lineage to wake me up. There were three bottles of wine in the closet that went untouched. I learned what Alone is. I know better now than to ever go there again. I manipulate my emotions. I’m just fine. My neck is a straw, stomach’s a barrel. I met a philosopher on a Tokyo train once. He had a distinct feeling I would make the world a more beautiful place. Exhibit A for the irrelevance of instinct.

Nothing proved worth it, so I sold everything and changed my name. I had a hideout in the Motel 6, pistol in the nightstand, until things blew over. I burned down my hometown and threw all the old love notes into the blaze. This isn’t a sad story. It’s a story of becoming. This is the story of everything I am, of taking or leaving it, of all that is in question. The story of a small boy in a big body, who knows nothing. Though somber it may sound, everything always feels like an ending to me. In that honor, I am going to assassinate the Riotwalker tonight.

I forget why I write at all, my words expire as they fall on the page. There is dirt on my tongue when I speak. And though we’re all made of meat, something keeps us from rotting. There is some sort of throbbing heat at the center of all of this. Let me shift allegiance to That. Let me become an agent of That. Let me break with That. And if someday my mind should inevitably turn from it, please accept my apologies. After all, I’m only human, and sometimes Grace is not my consort.

Good night,
I love you,
Weatherfield