Every Good Boy Does Fine

I had one of those solitary fortuitous smiles today. It was one of those which gathers, isolates and calcifies via a pale flock of thoughts that our bound together by the smile and become a single helix shaped strand suspended from the stormy firmament of work-a-day motions.
As is often the case, I happen to be riding the train when suddenly I am at the mercy of a chemical process of this nature. It signals a departure of my attention away from a podcast about the succession of ruling kings in Sumer, Nubia and ancient Egypt. I was trying to do the math in my head, qualifying the corresponding astrological ages to these particular phases of history, counting backwards from the culmination of this millennia as it passes in the present. This exercise must have struck a particular chord as I imagined the rosary of celestial bodies fixed to the ecliptic, swinging from the pendulum of the ages in their steadfast trajectory as cities are ascended from the alluvial toil and thrust of human bodies to be leveled again under the aegis of that same locomotion.
It is a thought that reevaluates my sullen preoccupation with drunkenness and speculates that the condition is only a romantic fixation on the shades of feelings about things; a kind of sadness synesthesia that begets a series of divine supplications–
Give me loneliness that feels like rain
Give me solipsism that feels like wine
Give me guilt that feels like martyrdom
Give me weakness that feels in retrospect like a slight of hand, tumbling down into one of those icy northern craters of shadowy regret like trickle down economics
I am a mere mortal, just a shlumpadik Jewish bartender for hire on Christmas Eve, I don’t ask for much
Give me an acre of land in the blue ridge mountains and I will plant a plum tree temple for all my friends