"It's about words, and words are all I have…"



1 brother out of 3 is Schopenhauerian  even perhaps a

touch Machiavellian   Casting aspersions upon my dream:

To retire in Guatemala by 63   You’ll have a vinyl couch

salamanders in every corner  grimy tile floors +a musty

smell     Smell that smell


He is otherwise cheerful +quite happy  though a little bitter

over a painter I sent him 16 yrs. ago   Me rolling my eyes:  I

didn’t give birth to him    It is also true that I have begun to

wax poetic on the 363 shades of green in the Guatemalan canopy

And I have lost my bearings in travelblog descriptions of: the light

No doubt my ennui grows unbearable to those closest to me


Imagine what it feels like on the inside

the light is mystical pasty poet

the light will seep into your desiccated veins

the light will rejuvenate the heinous parts of you

you who made jaded your life’s work


This is quite a bit like believing in heaven  in the resurrection

And you  yes you  rise up on nearly new patent Dr. Martens  in

which you will break your neck on the quaint cobblestones   And

in your mind’s eye all of the detritus:  furniture  broken kitchen

gadgets  + the mouseshit  you have carted   IMPLODE


Suddenly compressed vertebrae release  +like a 1950’s housewife bored

silly  growing more unhinged daily  you toss your prescriptions: Diazepam

Lorazepam  Ativan  et al  +dive headfirst into the freedom abyss   Likely

just as terrifying as the captivity noose    Poor little naked Ape  walking

upright   Vestigal wings clipped at scapula  Rotator cuff agony  from flailing

against every self-made cage you’ve ever lived in


Time to grab hold of your cahones  +jump    Just be careful not to scream

shiiiiiiiiit on the way down   There is an ancient Guatemalan myth  in which

you become what you intone in your moments of greatest fear   Or to put it

another way:  should you not become conscious of what you fear  fate will

take you kicking and screaming there






Winter  2018





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