I depleted all answers between the last turnpike, and the last light before dawn.
Lamps popping as I ponder amber sky and tactless tendrils of saturated wet grass.
Piloting this meat suit prison full of noise and empty.
A well planned emergency jettison of mortality and in all hopes contemplation for solidarity.
If not, accountability.
Maps. Guides. Compass.
I tossed them for the stars fading in morning's crushing afterbirth.
Glorius, if not infinitely cruel.
Like some baleful ocean of willowy tryants and reveling heathens.
Beckoning me to drink the salty warm waters.
To drown obliviated among the captor sky.
Week 2.5 of the "Great Granny Migration".
Things are tense. That's what living with a manipulative, viciously passive-aggressive senior citizen (against their will) does to someone.
Surviving that so far, work stopped swaying so much, for now.
It's good to not sway.
I went through my old texts tonight and deleted a fair slug.
I didn't delete a single one from you.
Even out of context, fragmented, and half a year old- it felt good to see your words, and pretend for a moment that you could be reached.
There wasn't a great deal of yearning and agonizing, it was warmth.
Something like happy.
Maybe for the rest of the night.
I've been spending as much time with my brother as I can. His life is still quite the clusterfuck, or maybe something that rhymes with life.
Getting out hasn't been working out so great.
I still have good days and bad. Universe falling on my head one day, getting coffee the next.
It seems to be easier when I'm by myself, or with Clover.
Sometimes we go out and pick mushrooms (to look at) and talk to the neighborhood cats. One very much wants to be ours, and if I catch her by the scruff of her neck some day I'm taking her to the shelter.
I don't even like cats, they're snooty and generally lack personality, but this one thinks she's a dog.
So I'll take her somewhere that can have confused, skinny dog-cats.
It isn't perfect yet.
And it occasionally brushes against my fingertips within reach of budget.
Then something usually comes up, like new tires, or a kidney transplant, but I think this time next month I'll be talking to lawyers, and bankers.
Two of my favourite kinds of people.
And maybe I'll have some wet, green firmament to lay down on,
and pretend I'm home.
It will be place, but somewhat lacking as home.
Not without back porch cigarettes, and sheets crumpled in a heap.
I gotta hold it all together.
Just a little longer.
A lot longer.
Things are getting worse. I mean... before they get better.
I have to be fair. Things have been bad before.
Passed out on the floor, no sun for months. Bad.
Guns, broken glass, and post-morphine glee. Bad.
Something tells me I'm aspiring to those days.
My job is changing again.
I'm moving across the hall to be in a room with three other people instead of one.
My least favourite person at work overtook my (and this other lady's) office because she's
So my options were
learn a more complex job, for no raise until August.
Change schedule again, or
EVERY day with my least favourite person at work.
I obviously took the option that dumped the contents of my desk into a box, moving down the hall, and another 2 weeks of probationary training.
The good news is, the job I'm taking is going to look
on a resume.
Hell, I can even do it from home if I can get over the hump.
I'm also losing 80% of the panic inducing assignment (the last 20% pending). I'm rather pleased at that fact, especially since my favourite person at the agency, whom I only see on that assignment
is leaving at the end of the month.
So things are going to be hard.
If things stabilize (which they never have) I come out ahead.
A lot ahead.
I dunno how but the other shoe will land and I'll be doing this job, my six old jobs, and the panic job by June.
I'm winning out by attrition.
Though without some extra scratch, what I'm winning isn't all that clear, and only 6 people in an agency of hundreds have the salary range I'm gunning for by the end of the year.
I'll re-evaluate my options after land, fort, and freedom.
When there's a need, they ask me first.
So either I'm a chump, or go-to. I'll try to assume the best.
Ask again in six months.
Maybe this is that weird, tense, painful moment before everything turns in my favor, and I get what I want
or at least what I'm working for.
I've been listening to a lot of prog-rock. That whole, pre-punk era of high concept artsy compositional rock.
Procul Harum specifically.
A lot going on in the imagery of that song, that album, and A Salty Dog.
I sing when I'm sad.
I only dance when I'm happy.
You're not the only thing I think about.
I think about a cabin where there's no lamp-posts, or roads.
Tall grass tickling my wrist, and a run of nearly-wild dogs, and dirt trails to wilder pastures.
These days it's just me, and it doesn't seem to be quite enough.
My head can't quite wrap around a solution to that.
But there's perch on the fire, and a surprising lack of agenda and intent.
I guess that's what this is all for.
A life of weekends, and playing in the dirt.
I'll take what I can to get by.
Tomorrow I move into my new desk, and probably get hammered by a bunch of new shit that is weird, nit-picky, and could kill someone if I fuck it up.
don't fuck up.
I'm getting pretty good at that.
I had that dream again.
Your hand was catching the clouds.
And you could fix me with a glimpse.
Everything got worse when morning stirred.
I woke to a new stiffness, a new dead limb,
and the increasing hollow of dawn unaccompanied.
Did you stop loving me because I was broken?
Or was it simply that I was never there.
To be fair... neither were you.
I could still kiss you every day.
Bad breath, cracked lips, bleeding hearts.
Makes no difference to me.
Let's call this "reconstruction".
I guess that's progress.
But, I'm at the smorgasborg, and nothing looks good.
I have the faintest, most lukewarm of interests right now.
I hate when these slumps come on because they're tremendous time wasters.
I'll pull out of them, and look around realizing all the time I lost sulking or feeling grey.
I'm at the smorgasborg, and I had homecooked perfection for almost 2 years.
She's a hard act to follow.
I'm training half of my replacement. Still maneuvering to wiggle forward in the company.
Other half of my replacement may or may not be in-bound.
Won't know for a while.
Keep having minor explosions, and bailouts, and flakes.
I feel like you were the edge of the world.
Like after you there's nothing.
Maybe that feeling will disappear. Maybe you will first.
At this exact moment, I want neither to happen.
There's a silence that follows her through every broken window.
A lingering scent of dried pasta and cheap cigarettes.
I plead. I toy. I jiggle the fragments and blades still stuck in the wound.
Pawing at the scars and the oft-forgotten or outright ignored advance.
I got my first breaking the back door.
Stuck my hand through like magic, and twisted.
There was a crash.
The coy familiar beckon of spring, yard, and honeysuckle.
Squirrels conspiring and swearing in the pecan tree.
Came back red, and zig-zag all over my wrist. Like tiny tildas.
That's when I knew it was broken.
And so was I.
There's more to go, and all the blossoming parsley plants climbing up my window, and confrontations between mastiffs and pomeranians won't help.
Actually they'll help a lot.
There's more to go.
A lot more.
Still flying solo. I'm not really working on that right now. I wasn't when I wasn't either.
I don't really find what I need, it seems to find me.
So I've been asked to endure, but in the mean time I might implement a few challenge levels.
Like juggling with my feet.
Or doing this without you.
Sounds like flying without a jetpack.
No determination on my financial aid request from the hospital types. That was over six months ago.
I probably need to go to the head shop more than a GI.
I haven't had time to talk to my PA.
Two months til my mother's heinous judgemental drama-llamma bitch-mom lands. Start the countdown.
I won't be a rich man by then.
I lost my train of thought to that.
And why I had started this post.
I've got a ways to slug through yet.
August might be interesting for work, if I make it that long.
We're understaffed, and I'm bent backwards picking up slack and learning new jobs all the time.
Might get a raise and/or promotion though.
Especially since I've been promoted...
I wanna say twice.
Who fucking knows any more?
I don't hate it. It's getting me out of the hole. I help people.
That's most of what I ask for in a job.
In no specific order.
Wonder if I can make an offer by August.
Barring NO fucking CATASTROPHES.
I mean we did just have one tonight...
Everyone says hi.
And parsley blossoms are sweet.
Not as good as chive blossoms.
One of these days she's going to disappear.
What comes next is a mystery. Sobriety? Comebacks.
Better living through chemistry with your local barista and dealer?
Not sure I'll make it that long.
I haven't seen the right side of dawn since she left.
And thus conquered thirst, sense, and sensation.
A drop became a trickle, a stream, a downpour.
Obliviating the last four months like a bilge pump on overdrive.
Still remains the silt and lingering.
The phantoms and whispers require something more caustic.
A touch more abrasive.
Reach for the lye, reach for the succor, reach for the acid and higher octanes of memory-cleanser.
The rainy season nears.
There's a man under all the dried, matted blood and fuzz.
There's a story behind the stink-eye, jig-saw, and raw nerves.
He may have a penchant for underweight dimes and thunderously bitchy women with attachments.
Of married women, two-timers, spinners, and burners.
There may be a few ashy scars down his forearm,
and the distinct odor of six days without having a shave, or giving a fuck.
He may have a distinctive blur of event, desire, and repress.
Ten years too late, a hundred years too soon.
I should have called.
I should have called four months ago. Not quite to the day.
Stale cigarettes and peaty scotch can only divert for so long.
I guess to say nothing. Maybe have my nephew babble on the other end, and tell her I'm not dead.
What's the term in sailing? Backed into a corner... without a knife to cut the rigging?
Found my knife.
All of em.
The strength isn't there if it comes down to it.
If I have to put it in his neck, I could make a decent showing, crossing the border, and drinking ground water for a week or two-
For so long it was We. Now I have to drag these old bones, and chipped steel back to Me.
I guess I just wanted to say that I don't need you to believe in me any more.
I still want you to.