I am tired. But I am not beaten.
I am mindful. But not dramatic.
I am inspired. But not deluded.
I am a boy.
I am a man.
These statements are declarative.
But are statements, nonetheless.
There are these moments.
Where I am standing somewhere
Unforgettable. And I feel things.
Good things. Bittersweet things.
I am a god.
And nobody knows this.
As a god.
Nobody knows this.
As a boy.
I am excitable.
As a man.
I choose brevity.
But feel things that
Can be best described
As everything.
As far as a boy,
Man, standing somewhere
Unforgettable knows that he
Is excitable and feels some sort of
Satisfaction that he does still wonder.
I will stop at wonder. For wonder is
Like soap and fresh balls and the thumbprint
Of romance.
Romance.
You bet.
Right now, as the chicken cooks.
And I am feeling things.
The best I can do is describe the
Phenomenon of braces.
You know. The thing that frames
The unframed-able. Aka; the exciteable
Smile.
The chicken is cooking.
I feel distant but irrefutably connected.
And I’m thinking about braces and stuff
Like when I was younger and thought about
Train hopping and knew something about
Language and felt eternity. And had no shame
For saying things like, “I knew something about
Language and felt eternity” because I saw the
Holes, nonetheless, but undeniably did.
I used to feel that being morbidly obese afforded some
Sort of absolution. Or buying into the myth of mental
Illness. “I see dead people”. While the voices may come
From the non-existent air duct – seeing dead people affords
No absolution and at this point, coming from boy – to man –
Who remains exciteable – who is cooking chicken – who wants
To maul his girl – but is cooking chicken and tired – and has balls
That smell like – something that he used to sniff to pass time and
Sniff because it was a nice tactic to know that he is not and never
Was invisible – that none of this shit is any sort of absolution and
As the people in his life who kept him afloat without knowing the
Curse of displacement – need him to remain excitable and feel good
About things as the chicken cooks and stuff.
Stuff is a good way. A good cord to rip. An exit. Jettison. Without
A blindness to north.
Let’s just say that when I was a kid – getting braces was some sort of thing
That kids who could get braces got to make their teeth fantastic and even though
The hardware was there and the smile was getting fixed and the fact that it was getting
Fixed was a very clear line of demarcation that this is, was, and is something of great love that in reality – the teeth will hurt and the food will get stuck and putting gum wrappers the teeth or palming safety pins to put in your mouth to make some j-hole’s
Lecture about Hitler and opportunism seem a bit more interesting will kind of sort of
Pale in the face of the reality. You have to brush your teeth. You have to eat. The reality comes. And its funny – because people are jealous of the love that came to
Brighten your smile. And if you complain about it too much – you will sound like a
J-hole and will not be able to explain it.
The best I can do is this. Is say that a second ago I put on some Brahms. That felt sad and spastic. The chicken is cooking. And right now as the chicken is cooking me and my girl are sitting separate as she chats with folks on the internet and I write this god damn dribble and all I want to do is not need to eat, or work, or wear braces, or understand braces, and just forget, dive in, eat, envelop and become enveloped
And be home.
Which is funny. Because I am. I am home.
And I know this. Which is something that makes perfect sense of
Everything.
So luck, as I am. As we all. Should be.
Like walking five miles in the snow to school.
And telling that story. To a short bag of skin full of
Farts and frankness.
I’d rather not be writing this.
But no longer find the art of survival romantic.
Thrive.
Have no shame friends for your comfortable lamentations.
Make wail and bang and fuck like no tomorrow. Love hard
And be small and a god in your freaking minutia.
Apparently, today – a large section of los angeles was burning.
And when I woke up – I made tea because I thought that she
Might be sick.
C.
U.
Next.
Tuesday.
Lovers.
Amen.
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