Not Bad

I find it odd the way people ask
how you’re doing
as a formality
and as a formality in return I respond
not bad
and it’s not this interaction that’s suspect
but their reaction to my words
to the reality of my default
being anything other than fine,
my confusion a reflex to theirs.
Not bad is as good as it gets
for some people
most of the time
and, that, to me
is fine
but occasionally
it’s also alright.

Habitually Restless

You can only love like you’ve never been hurt once.

The rest, that’s something else.
And it’s healthier, hopefully
and it’s rational, but it leaves
your mouth without saliva
and a thirsty, calloused heart
as you’ve now learned
to measure the dosage
no risk of pain
or much of pleasure, just enough
to keep you hanging on
little loves, three times daily
and never all at once
after the first few months

and you hate
this flattened passion
the remains of it
as it once was
without a basis
for comparison, uncharted
like an island
where you discovered their palms
their caves, their waterfalls
their piranhas and venomous snakes.

When your map is complete,
and the security is suffocating,

you start building sails for fun.

Half-Assed Jealousy

God, how I envy the prudent
the punctual
the prompt
those procrastinationless pricks.

Those people not feverish
from ping-ponging
between crafting a poem at 1:14
in the morning, praying
to a god they don’t believe in
bargaining with their memory
please do not fail me
despite every mnemonic strategy
they didn’t bother to employ.

Equal parts boring and leisurely it must be
to have your shit together.

Risk

The skin on my leg has begun sloughing off
in the most beautiful shades –
blue, brilliant, royal
vibrant like an articulate drunk
slurring their passion over ice
using words like
strangely compelling
and causal relationship
the blue of an encroaching storm
where the clouds look like the ocean
deep, full, fascinating
ominous, like everything
you can’t tell a purpose from a shark
or ink from the needles’ mark.

The best things in life have an appropriate danger to them.

In the news, they reported inordinate levels
of arsenic in wines you don’t drink
for the taste.
For a moment I was glad
I’ve always been a beer person,
I’ve never drank with the thought
of extending my lifespan.
Fiji water has 6.31 micrograms of arsenic per litre.
Cleveland tap has none.

Drink your fucking wine.

Perchance to Dream

I’ve been on another death kick
lately, fascinated by it –
accidents, suicides, accidental suicides.
Notes and last words.
Started reading “The Bell Jar” in a fit of
Plathiness. I always feel like Sylvia
felt a lot like me
very still and very empty,
the way the eye of a tornado must feel.
I knew I needed help
when “‘night, Mother” was an inspiration.

I nap frequently. It’s just easier
to sleep than drift numbly through the day
in a stupor of anhedonia, interrupted
by the occasional feeling –
positive or negative, but not strong enough
to snap me into a full blown emotion.
None of my naps involve an oven,
but there are times I get real tired
of waking up.

I think everybody does.