in the shadows of yesterday I wait
eyes cleared to the dark
which, I say, is still dark.
but I am drunk on the crispy aphrodisiac of sunshine
as it sticks to winter virgin skin
I bury my toes in the sands of time and smell
salty sweat so sweet so clean so spicy.
the dance is getting harder.
I don’t know the steps
but I do love a good twirl.
and I am drunk, I say, drunk on the possibility of
aspirational ascendance of alliterative absurdity and
I have a healthy imagination, I say.
my cache of Hope is in good supply.
the glass is more than half empty and ooohhhhh
it smells good.
behind door number three the darkness clears to my eyes
which are still eyes
and curls into gusts of The Future
which tastes dirty hot.
like your shoulder.
I peaked at 17.
It was a sad realization, the first time I said that out loud. But now, as all the work I did in high school appears to be coming back and giving me a little encouraging slap on the ass, we’ve moved into the acceptance phase.
Unlike grief, we’ll have denial and anger later, when money rolls in and pounds roll off.
Apologies: this is one of those journal-entry posts. I will be funny again eventually, but I’m pretty sure the strep infection has to leave first.
I spent my weekend with 11 teenagers, who in turn led 200 middle-schoolers in prayer, song and spirit.
I threatened their lives and livelihoods; I shouted and demanded and furrowed my brow; I denied them food and forced them to work their little fingers to the guitar-stringed callous.
And they relished every moment.
Since I managed not to injure a single one — a fact I already regret — I fear they may not take me seriously in the future.
Perhaps I’ll open with human sacrifice next time.
I have been laboring under a big sad. Mm, that’s almost true — but no laboring, as that implies doing anything and I sure as hell haven’t been doing that.
I hate to admit, for a short time here, the terrorists have won. The headaches, weight gain and body pain have me by the neck and won’t let go — breathing is hard without tears, nonetheless writing, speaking, leaving the house.
It’s like what I imagine metaphorical castration to be — I can think, worry, hope for movement, action, activity, to-do-list starting — let alone finishing. I can will myself to pay that stupid bill that’s now five months overdue. I can plan out how I’ll take the dogs to the park, renew my tags, paint my office. I can imagine finishing the New Year’s post I’ve started. It’s really quite good, you know. The start of it.
But I can’t seem to do it, to finish it, to start.
Interestingly, I didn’t have to tell Kooky Doctor about this — she divined it herself. Which is the right word choice, because then she launched into a faaaaaabulous discussion of the divine — including the Buddha, yogis and, my favorite, Jesus — before handing me a prescription for more anti-depressants and a beta blocker that should both chill me out and stop the headaches.
Let us pray.
I do not tell you this to complain. I do not write this for the comments. I do not sit here for your support. I’ve already got it, I know. And lord, you cannot know how grand that is.
The point, I suppose, I’m trying to make is: LOOK I’M WRITING. Even if this is it. This is what I’ve got. Because I’ve got it. And that’s a start.
I walk the line between wistful and teary
with chalk on my soles and marks on my heart.
The cable width changes like knit one, purl two
of someone else’s pattern written for someone else’s feet.