The past 24 hours have made it clear..time for me to renounce humanity. If you really need me, walk into the woods and look for a spear, a stockpile of whiskey, and a tub of Vaseline. I’ll be nearby.
They miss the whisper that runs
any day in your mind,
‘Who are you really, wanderer?’
and the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
‘Maybe I’m a king.’
Now that the remote yet still terrifying possibility that Herman Cain could be our country’s leader has receded like some putrid Coney Island wave or a Kardashian’s vow of eternal love, I’d like to acknowledge that it would probably be fun to drink bourbon, eat day-old Godfather’s pizza, and hit golf balls off of a roof with him (assuming he was wearing a chastity belt, of course.)
Across the world and in places I’ve never been, I have seeds planted, doors left open, ellipses outstretched and dangling between held-breath and the question of whether ‘could have been’ and ‘could still be’ are mutually exclusive. I haven’t forgotten everything that’s suspended. Those recurring voices—or the sullen dots that show where voices themselves fell short—may be what haunt me most. They have the same effect as a long gone lover suddenly naked in your own bed again…the time in between collapses, there’s something more powerful at work than those seams we rely on.
In a world less turbulent I would settle my accounts, but they’re scattered mid-sentence, which is perhaps the only way we know to stop talking. It’s the choice between the finality of a single period, or the longing of three side by side.
I don’t get a chance to catch my breath, and probably that’s a blessing. Things hatch always—from the most unexpected breeze, a piece of glass I never see until it’s in my foot, even a love note that’s suddenly there and all I did was open my hand to find it.
There can be no reconciliation, Stephen said, if there has not been a sundering.
THIS IS WHERE I WENT TO COLLEGE. Look at how happy and cute and queer and utopian it is.
I think I saw Frankie Muniz selling feta cheese to the homeless in Battery Park. All proceeds were going to the Herman Cain campaign. God bless us
I am on someone’s roof but I seem to have misplaced their name. The world positively reeks of booze and there are wretched glorious lights everywhere except overhead and I feel absolutely like a champion of the whatnot.
I may be a rascal, but at least I’m not a scoundrel.