crack

I think we've all had enough of this.

But what's the ocean without a rip tide to drag you out and an undertow to drag you under?

It wouldn't crash. And lovers wouldn't kiss in the surf.

And that is infantile. Placid is better than tumultuous. Just is. Tranquil is better than troubled. That's it. Security is sounder than sacrifice.

So don't.

Let's just rejoice (in silence) that Summer is over. I'll go back to grinding myself to powder, but this time I'll smile (with you) at the thought of how the wind will take me up and scatter me. Settling is better. Laughing is better.

I know: Contrast. I get it. But I don't have to keep learning how to ride a bike. I don't need to sweat to remind me how much I hate it. No mistake is made once. But with repetition, it stops being an adventure.

Leave me to it. Or, really, keep leaving me to it.

Or just leave.

I'd rather mourn over your absence than over you.

gone/no_more.this

It isn't right for me to write. I know you want no words from me. Not that you mean to be mean. But it's rare to meet another who doesn't eat meat. Pray, make me your prey.
And the Fins with fins never could perform the final finale--so, here I am to sew another fly on the fly. Though once it was your wont, you won't be coming here to come. Peel me 'til I'm appealing.

Sorry. I'm in love with language in an embarassingly bad way. And who else cares? Or who else, by not caring, could open so the valves of my attention? Only you.
For all I know you've blocked my e-mail and these go straight to the spamboxxx (the love below). My place. Where else? I don't expect/deserve/request/begrudge an answer. But I'm depressed and sick and . . . inspired. And you're the only human . . . even your silence is delicious to me.

But you're only human.

I need to sleep. I need sleep. I'm not drunk on it yet--howevermuch this indicates. I'm stone stinking sober slash awake. Just feeling. It all comes down to diet you know, and no one eats healthier than me. Tomorrow I'll hack up a lung and it will all pass. I blew my nose this morning and there were jellied globs of blood. Still, I don't feel weak or frail, though my voice is low, sexy and full of gravel. I've been leaving people those old voice mails: "This is Barry White, wishing you a very sexy Thanksgiving." My friends indulge me.
Damn, you have put up with some serious shit from a ridiculous man. Smile for me just once. Smile because of me. Let me be the source of some secret happiness, small but signifigant. You don't even have to associate it with me on a conscious level. I'd settle for being a vague memory that puts a nameless twinkle in your eye.

Because your eyes . . . I have to dash out the brains of the oarsmen, lest they crash the boat on the hopeless memory of them. Just row, damn you, row. The Scylla left a voicemail. I texted back to say we were on our way. My crew thinks mutiny is SOP. To disabuse them at this point would be abuse.

There I go again.

loverly

Up and Down.

Sometimes an almost complete waste: tar in your veins and cracks in the soil. Sometimes a well of creative energy, an unstoppable force for good.

Often in the same day. And sometimes in the same moment.

So all your choices have added up to a two headed snake headed in opposite directions. So you've loved and lost without really loving or losing. So you've dedicated yourself to dreams deferred that explode only to renew themselves--without renewing you. So you felt it all except the fulfillment. So you crave the hint of headache that hovers at the edge of bleach monoxide. So?

The house is built on rock, so it doesn't wash away. But you go out into the night and stand on the porch and invite the ocean, and one second it kisses the bottom step and paints the moon on glass, only to crush you against the door with a two ton wave just as you were about to say: "Ah, how lovely and calm you are tonight."

There is nothing to diagnose. These poles of contradiction are not chemical. They're not socio-economic or emotional or political. Really, they don't even contradict each other. Water is water--predictable to physicists who are not swimming in it. And a Moment is a naked God: it is that it is.

So what's the struggle? Unless you invented it, so you could have something to . . .