— Rainer Maria Rilke
"Cause I don’t appreciate
All that loving must’ve been lacking something
If I got bored trying to figure you out
You let me down
I don’t even like you anymore at all”
I didn’t think of you for 10 minutes after I woke up yesterday. At the kitchen table in Encinitas sunshine. Folks, we have a new world record. Hand me the torturous, nickel plated trophy, hang it around my neck with iron links to weigh and dislocate my pale, frail being those so often refer to. Thoughts of you are a crutch. Hobble along on my peg leg boy to avoid the bite of reality until I fall to gravelly palms. The bloody discovery. I feel sick from cigarettes and sake and eel sauce and cream cheese and general malnutrition. Yet, incredulously, none of this uneasiness pertains to you. As I look back over the harbor and the Star of India, my affliction shifts from The Male Race to my mind’s battle. And I’ve come prepared with twin axes and maniacal eyes. I’m sick in the head, with joy oozing from my left ventricle.
It’s strange. waking up in the halfway house of slumber and bleary eyes, thinking of the one you love. Just before the hollow pang of hunger strikes you in the chest, in the gut, in the face. The calm before the shitstorm. Now this prickling remembrance. YOU GAVE UP resonates throughout my fried pinball brain. And again we begin the dance with partners Rage and Void. ‘Pack away those thoughts like winter clothes’ they whisper as we turn. ‘You are so brittle, eat, eat.’ Satiation is of the past. An antiquated notion. My organs must have withered into sand and cropped up in Egypt. But still, this ache for the simple allowance to think of you. It’s shacked up like a deviant, parasitical brother telling you everything will be ok if you just loan him a grand or two. Take it. Take everything. Cut me open and fill me with matter. Cement, molasses, Legos, tar, broken glass. Anything to be fat and comfortable. Anything to not shrivel like a raisin as I continue to search for a consumable that isn’t arsenic. Anything to not shrivel like bathwater skin as I continue to search for a consumable that isn’t you.
I always thought snacks would fix everything. I think you did too. You were never mine to keep.
We’re at the Hotel Scraped Knees,
we are asleep in God’s plan, we’re
with each other in the ribcage
of the image of night. Our
in the spring; Happy Halloween
it is the Fourth of July. Let’s
celebrate, you say, strapped
for youth, shook to dust,
I lost my ability to get so lost and caught up,
In the magic of playing my violin.
Somewhere along the way,
I forgot how to draw,
Like the pencil was not a pencil,
But an extension of my soul.
Somewhere along the way,
I stopped expressing my feelings,
And began to express them,
Through self-destruction instead.