Monday, November 28, 2011


In youth, the skin has buoyancy—a juiciness—plump, soft yet firm to the touch, it springs back from a smile, from a pinch. It snaps back instantly—there is no lag.

I lag. Here it is. My skin lags (rhymes with fag, sag, and hag. How lovely.)

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Self-Hate Part 2

How come when it comes to saying the really hard stuff I get totally mealy-mouth and can’t type or say a thing? 

What kind of coward am I? 

I boast and brag about being a truth teller, about not being scared of much, about being fearless mostly, and about how important the truth is—at least knowing your own truths. How is it that I have no trouble being an asshole or being opinionated or speaking my mind. Then, fast-forward to me, crippled by the truth—totally paralyzed to write or speak the story, to hear the song, to dig in and say what’s it is.  

The only good is that the stakes are high and I have a shitty poker face. 

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Oh, That Vicious Inner Critic--Shut Up!

God, November is hard to swallow this year. The sadness floods in like a tsunami, a barrage of waves smashing grief, anger, longing, in a relentless call and response. It’s hard to stand; harder to sit. And then, there is the bitterest taste in my mouth, not just a metaphor…it’s sour like after eating too much candy. Maybe that’s it—too much Halloween candy, I’m all bitter in the mouth. Bitter and soaking wet with disappointment. Here comes the end of the year. Watch out for regret slipping into this wintery mix; slippery motherfucker that regret is…what have you accomplished this year? How about those New Year’s resolutions? You fucking loser.  When will you ever learn?

Rattle, leaves, rattle. Shake in the wind. The wind trying gently then with more vigor to shake those last little palms of hope and life loose, leaving only skeletal pointy shards of the blackest bark behind. And the snow will come…you can bet on it. More death. More cold. More isolation. Ice.

Put that in your pipe.