I suppose it looks like I should be drowning in the proverbial sea of alcohol and tears but let me tell you Hank had nothing on me a few years ago and in the interim, although it seems as though I'd been saved and pulled aboard a life raft crafted from his very skin, the truth is I had carefully and willfully frozen the surface over and I could see not long ago, the agony that I should feel and I confess to having ordinary human compassion and concern for one I thought was hurting (and admittedly, that was my mistake, but if those things make me a fool, I'll run the risk each time around) but I was able to stand above it all and walk away
And perhaps I should apologize for not reading the guidebook The Modern Middle-Aged Woman's Guide to -- never mind but the truth is, when it's been a life of synapse hating synapse and of fighting every day to keep myself and stay alive, I don't have time for mindless reading I'm so sorry I don't care.
I don't have time to grieve for things that never even were
There's so much grief that's been required of me now
There's no space left to mourn the ending of some fanfic autobio.
And if I reached out for a hand -- not the first and by far not the only -- and let my hedonism rise and shift to something like the taste of coffee on a lazy Sunday morning dark and sweet and lingering forgive me if I choose this over drowning or sitting on the ice and staring down at the shit below the surface while I wished for something more.
The lights are on in your great glass house
but there’s nothing there to see.
Your eyes are glued to the man next door,
face pressed against his window in a gruesome caricature,
bulging against the panes, lashes wet with lust and your palms
to the cross
you wear like a brace
to straighten out
and the holes bleed out, slick sweat and muddy feet and the ones below
from the filthy wounds
like turning vomit
You are the keeper of everything;
you are the arbiter of every
and your disciples gather close and wait
for the baptism to start.
Some of you might know that I wrote a couple of books; the second one has now joined the first on Amazon. So here it is, in case anyone is interested. I suck at self-promotion, sorry. It’s a nice book, just a little collection of some of the nicer things I’ve written. Not sappy-nice, though. That’s gross.