Counting every step to every door, more mental tic than fitbit, maybe I'm giving it too much credit, but anyway closer to some animal neurosis, yet an efficiency rationalization still. But what about taking days like stairs, two at a time, three if you're brave and yr ankles are good, in some big fucking hurry, like turnt down, for what? To get to some fantasyland where I'm wearing a prom dress and drunk slow dancing with you, more like hanging onto, to a recording of that Crowded House song I can't get out of my head on a on-location California set made to look like some place in Arizona where we would like to go to there? Willfully, knowingly and with malice aforethought ending on a preposition, that is the depth of my no-fuck-giving, 'cause, lookit, I'm still getting choked up when I find myself in a bottleneck, need all my reserves to keep a lid on it at other times, still stung and numb somehow, eulogies for who and why? I feel like I should pipette my tears into some kind of centrifugeable glass, so I could discover the truth about what makes them. Glad for sunglasses, no matter how ridiculous they look, and I'll wear those motherfuckers out by wearing them anytime I'm out, even when I'm inside; and for the slow, compassionate, tender rending of flesh from bone, in a way that is deeply sympathetic and soulful, banish all retarded connotations now! I wish I could convince myself that I am a believer; it seems like such a nice contingency.
Maybe I'll see you this summer after all, Southern California, though we all know I what I prefer:
Big Sur or the Big Mouth; both, any, all with my favorite big mouth
and consensual involuntary part-squeezing in a late-night morning;
this call going to visual voice mail, leave a message at yr peril;
signs that used to exist on sandy points that used to exist;
pearls in the form of a clam shell sandcastle;
for you to live long enough to enjoy it;
not like I think you have a choice,
not like I think you don't.
Death will make
a philosopher
of me
yet
.
