Treating a sugar rush like a solution

In times like these, the weariness is passing into something like resignation, which I keep insisting is acceptance. And you, who know me or don’t know me or find here some circumstance that perhaps coincides with a moment or your lifetime, are not sure how either of us ended here. The plan falls flat like learning to juggle pancakes. Ramble bamble, roil and scramble. These awkward twinings of inside and out. Wander over my skin like vines on a statue in a place where vines can grow on statues. Perhaps all I need is a poem and a


We sat on the balcony, my words and I, tossing back ice-cold cider and summertime snacks. Sweating bottles and sweaty temples, the sticky sun crisping our stomachs and toes. We chuckled into the silence of crows and sparrows and magpies and bees. Biding and buying time. Stocking up against the autumn staring into the corners of our eyes. We knew, my words and I, where the story would turn. Where the climax would shudder into rapid resolution. We sat anyway. Stayed put. Smiled and held our hands against the concrete.

On dead celebrities

So there I was, not thinking about actors or pop icons. And now, I am. But only because it’s so fucking surreal that I should care in any way about the gap that is left in human interaction or consumption or experience. I find that I do care. Legends shouldn’t die so young. Ah, there it is: the Legend. I equate this persona not with a person who sleeps and farts and stubs his toe, but with a story that is written and read and interpreted. And there is no more to the story. There will be epilogue, prologue, subtext, and apocrypha, but the story ends this way, always. With a lacunal chapter on what comes next. Anger and grief are left in the collection for a sentence or a paragraph. And then the ink fades. This specific emotional experience is not of archival quality. And Legends find a way to thrive anyway. Without and beyond me.