Argo always hid under his hats and hoodies in plain sight and he invented pseudonyms for his creative projects, he confided, because he couldn’t handle the anxiety that fame always brought him. Then he’d pass out (distribute) all of his published literary magazine poems and self-promoted band cd’s for free and say it was never about the money. And when he invited people to his shows, he’d keep them waiting, while he got too drunk to perform at all well, but drunk enough to think he had.
Sunk by DNA, he blamed, he believed himself to be a ghost that was cursed to watch his widow mourn,
often triggered his wife into a fit of cuss words that intimately described his failure to take out the trash,
so that eventually Argo only begged that she’d keep his cremated remains clean, if not his actual memory.
He wanted to bend the metal of a long saw to make it sing and found himself listening to men who could draw on such serrated blades to weep, with envy.
He could neither quite howl or croon like the dogs he emulated;
but he felt time was still worth (being wasted)
even as it was running out on him,
if he looked back at all the near misses and close calls as divine luck,
equivocating it with dumb luck, like that made him smarter than everyone else.
When Argo learned he could make his rhythm sticks sound like oinking pigs it felt like the impossible day where pigs could actually fly, and even though he was busting to let others know of his ability to bring home the bacon, he refused to point out how Pink Floyd had already been there done that, and waited to hear from anyone who had truly listened…
He didn’t expect feedback. He waited to be discovered.
Although he bragged that there were a few backstage whores who asked for his John Hancock, they ultimately made him feel sorry for them, so he refused to give them the time of day.