Tuesday 6/27/2006 12:02:00 AM

He said he was sorry. He wasn't listening. The phone. The voicemail. The pong. That green square all dissected by white lines. Square ball. So distracting.

The cap. The glass. The flute it becomes when I've finished. Breathe. And breathe again. Find. Hunt. The song inside this abyss. The rhythm of falling. The melody in admitting I'm stronger than I want to be.

Even without them. Moreso maybe since.

Catch myself.


I wouldn't let myself fall were I not prepared to land.

An instinct. As the line drive cannons toward my crotch. Turn my wrist toward. Cushion the bomb.

There's nothing to trust except my love for them.

Pudding on the stove. Brown spoon stirring. Thinking the heat is better than the cold.

It's just the heat she says. There's no air conditioning for the soul. We're always waiting for the perfect climate, but if we ever found it we wouldn't know what to do with ourselves.

The truth is we want to suffer.

The pain is the only thing that assures us we're alive.

I wish you could hurt me just once more. But it's not your fault that you can't.

It's mine.

Anonymous said...

The want to suffer is derived not by the suffering but by the desire ownership. Suffering is singular and solitary. As much as any suffering may be akin to another, the effect is ever so personal and alone, indelibly owned by the one who suffers.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2018. All Rights Reserved.