Rising from the dull bed, unfulfilled and seeking to release some restlessness. Make another deposit in the bank of verse. Wrapping this blanket of importance around these broken shoulders.
There is a heart. There is a heart. More than just that little black marble in the wrinkled sandwich bag.
Pull these thoughts. Suck this mind down into the bucket of emotion. Funny thing about a barrel of laughs, when the party quiets down, it makes for lonely company.
Everyone’s asleep including the cat. Wrapped in a blanket of purpose, the poet sets her head on fire, mistaking it for a candle wick.
Works out well. With embers where the face was, she can finally sleep.
Feebly following along another path to nowhere. Hello old neglected diary. Rags dies. Ten years old. Poor lonely little pup. His tongue turned to death in his mouth. I held him for the terminal injection. He’d had a pretty sucky looking week. Rivka called it on Friday. Took him to Dr. Steadman on Monday.
This is life. Breathe deep. Susan got cancer. Andrea and Ed died of it. Stress and sugar.
Rikki and I struggle deeply. Our “act” is in the outhouse. Mad Crappy. They try too hard. Which of us is the most narcissistic? How much of a controlling, codependent prick must I be?
Being in a house full of naked females is pretty awesome, even when their pissy toilet paper spills regularly out of the bathroom trash. Why do I wait for them to change it?
Fuck resentment. Fuck mania. Do I want to be awake at 1am writing this? Do you want to be reading it, or is it just obsession? What are we looking for?
Mom is turning 80 and doesn’t want to make a thing of it. I hear that. Fuck birthdays, but that’s kind of selfish.
The kids. They’re all about their birthdays. Aširah wants to invite her new best friend to hers. She met the girl once months ago. We all obsess. She’s getting roller skates for her birthday. And a helmet and knee and elbow pads. Rinah gets some pads too. And a ton of shit from the dollar store. The real dollar store: The Dollar Tree. The final distribution point for commercial failures.
Now is the time to buy grown-up person coloring books. Found some gems.
Carrie’s in publishing. They literally can’t give the coloring books away. Sending them to pulp by the thousands.
On a lighter note, Aširah lamented the other morning, “G’wown-ups a’h duh kings an’ kweens of weelaxing!”.