Playing Dead

I'm supposed to go to London, but they don't want to see me until the day after tomorrow, so I'm just going to tell them...Actually, I'm not going to tell them anything, I'm just going to miss my flight and deal with it later, I guess. I don't want to go to the stupid meeting anyway. They want to see me they can come here and see me. To sit through all the meetings and go through all the bullshit again after such a long trip to just go right back out into the world? I could have stayed downtown at the airport at the hotel, but I don't want to go all the way back there, and I wanted to see you. It just seems too silly and too daunting. Maybe after I get up. Maybe after I get up. I can't imagine ever getting up again. I like it here. I like it with you. It's quiet. How do you make it so quiet here when it's so loud outside? Have you been outside recently? It's not raining. I don't think it's ever going to rain again. What's your secret anyway? It's quiet. It's not loud like life. It's quiet. Like my childhood, here, with you. How quiet it is here. Stop looking at me like that.

Don't you ever get sad that you don't have any stories?

I mean, sometimes I think the only reason I do what I do is because I need stories. I get bored without stories. It's like a secret drawer, isn't it? This place. It's like a secret drawer for me.

But having stories. Having things to look back on. Having things to look forward to. Things you once looked forward to but didn't work out the way you planned. Proof of life. It's kind of like the secret, isn't it? The secret of life.

But I'd rather be here, with you, with not stories and not living.

I'd rather be here with you for a while.

Can I stay a little longer and play dead in your arms for a while?



Cave Man Sentences

These days, no matter what I do or think, everything coming out in sentences like this. Short and terse. Primal. Declarative. Cave man sentences. This. That. The other. Assume others know. Like talking this way, writing this way. Direct. No imagination. Space. Anyway. Poetry in this kind of...laziness. Don't know. World spins too fast for language. World so fast. World too fast for me. Maybe I need to just sit still until someone calls to tell me where to meet for lunch.



Wanna Play?



New Start

new start?

everthing over,
there's nothing you can do.

that's what
"new start"
these days.




We were falling apart,
they were showering together.

We were falling apart,
he was practicing golf swings
at dawn.

We were falling apart,
I was staring at her naked body
through the window
and imagining...

We were falling apart,
you were remembering,
doing your own

We were falling apart,
they were having a
sunday morning yard sale,
getting rid
of all the extraneous

We were falling apart,
they were moving out,
never knowing our names
and we never knowing their's.

We were falling apart.

It was spring,
the dog was sick,

then the beautiful neighbors
next store to us
were gone
for forever.

Every once in a while
we'd stare at each other
where they had gone
how long
this could go on.



The Cassandra Syndrome

It's rarely pretty, although occasionally so, but a writer's responsibility is to be a kind of Cassandra, and to accept the consequence from society, government, even family and friends, no matter what may come, for playing that part; otherwise they're probably not really a writer.


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