In old tales, men entered the forest alone, cut their own path through darkness. No guide but belief. No ancestry but thought, a word -- walk -- as thorns became home and light, theirs.
I studied the bar for possible moods — what was the one I felt yesterday, right after the Manhattan? Was that CareFreeMelancholy? or CitySad mixed with WindSweptLoneliness? WoeIsMe? No. Wait. I sent that first one back, got a TallBud and rode AwesomeConvo and his wingman, BroLove into the land of FuckAin’tItSolid! Or was that the AMF?
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That ladybug sits on that green leaf before its silken buzzy wings remind me I was somewhere too. — “What were you saying?”
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“You want me to stay?” The beginning that unfolds to an end I won’t like. Kill that tale now, before it becomes our story. “No. But thank you.” “Really?” he says, eyebrows newly engaged, the way they rose before, before this had to mean. “Yes.” Then he kissed my hand like a man does a magistrate. Got dressed fast — maybe I’d change my mind. One last glance back as we began better.
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Library of Memory, finger on the spines that hold together me. Oh, I do not like this book! (Though I’ve read it a thousand times.) I was too young to understand. How was I to know? (I knew.) One night sags the shelf that ought to be in the Restricted Section (like the old days, when you had to ask for the books with drawings). These spines are warped. Horrible! I move on. My, this one is beautiful. Just look at its golden cover: “Full of greeting cards and fairy tales.” Here, I learn right from wrong and begin to build My Best Self. Things work out in this book (just like a Hollywood movie). Grandma really likes it. I really should read it someday. But they said I could take out only one. Maybe this one? Bright and Sunny Days? And there are other rooms, futures I’ve never visited, a place for faith. Philosophy. I really should… as I bow my head, reach for Mistakes and turn to you.
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Poems are always
until I write them down.
Then they behave like ancient whores
who think they can survive
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Except for fear, cancer finds a greeting, age a celebration, death an orgasm!
Missing pencils and half-used cakes of board wax margaritas mid-afternoon on an old blue-painted porch the dog is sick but the vet says he’ll be okay “Do you ever miss Los Angeles?” Yeah, some friends, memories trouble is held back by the rocks protecting the bay.
“Isn’t it just so awesome, Chandler? Topanga said hi to me!” We’re both named after streets? “Why do I talk to you anyway? Whitsett will love this story!”
The phone stays belligerently still as I remember saying nothing.
The well she stands behind is called Love. Her job is to scream each time a fool gets close, a brutal, wicked scream that scatters birds. The wise, she makes no noise. They pass on their way, carrying water.
I asked three times
for this affliction to be taken from me.
“But it’s your brain,” God said.
Fuck! I guess I need that.