Bad News Beers...

I am definitely drinking too much.

I'm not entirely surprised, or overly concerned, by this.  It's to be expected that after abstaining for a year, I would revel a bit in the new found freedom to drink again.  It's new and shiny and fun and I want it all right now!  And I also expected it to take me a while to learn the ropes again; we have to fuck up in order to learn how to do something right.

But, still, I'm definitely drinking too much.  And I need to calm down.  Now.

I need to remember that I can't just drink as much as I want, whenever I want.  I could die that way.  And if I keep it up, I will die that way.

Wake up, motherfucker.

Blah Blurble...

I really want to write something to post here.  I have a lot to say right now.  But I don't particularly feel like saying any of it.  And I'm so busy right now, overwhelmed with so much work, that I can't even find the time to keep up with my email, much less write something.  And because of all the work, when I'm home, I'm just desperately trying to relax (largely without success), and don't have the energy to express things I need to express but don't really want to express.

That little slice of nothing is all I have time for right now.  And I feel guilty for taking the time to write even that much.  (Which is ironic, because the only reason I wrote it at all is to respond to the feeling of guilt I had over not posting.)

Having My Favorite Way With You...

when I reminisce about

our Yesterdays

the recollections that stand out

above all the rest

as the most important

the remembrances that call to me

louder than all the others

to retain my attention again

and again

the memories that are painted

in the most vivid colors

to recall my mind's eye

repeatedly

and inexorably

are always of those times

when I've made you

Laugh

like that

just like that

the laugh I love the most

where it seems to almost

burst out of you

as if you couldn't hold it in

even if you'd wanted to

where your eyes crinkle up

the way they do when you're about

to cry

and your blood rushes to your face

rushes to greet me

and you become my favorite

shade of pink

just like that

you're at your most beautiful

how many times now

have I made you

lose control

this way?

made your body rebel

against your will

made you shake

in uncontrollable

ecstasy

that left you sore

and gasping for breath?

Not nearly enough

for of all the ways

I can please you

pleasure you

for of the whole range of choices

I have at my disposal

to make you shudder

in uncontainable joy

there is not one that returns to me

half as much delight

nor conveys half as much

of my desire

nor expresses half as much

of my love

as does the Gift

of getting to hear you laugh

at me

until you are entirely

spent

Everything I Write Is Narcissistic Crap...

I'm hiding here
in this space where
I keep brutally exposing myself
I'm not really My self
I wear masks
and pseudonyms
and there's certain things I can't say
won't say
because I'm afraid of who will read them
and what they might learn about me
And sometimes I feel that makes
all of this
pointless
I am torn between two
equally important desires
I need to be raw here
I need to be violently open
I need to feel free to express
whatever I am feeling
for no other reason than the simple fact that
I am feeling
But I am also afraid
of the reactions I might get
afraid I might hurt someone
afraid of someone I know
learning something about me
that I don't want them to know
afraid they'll use it to hurt me somehow
I need to be wide open
but can only do it behind the safety of a mask
and even that isn't good enough
I still constantly self-censor
I have pages and pages of writings that no one
but me
has ever seen
will ever see
Even now
as I write this
I can't help but wonder at the reactions
I might get
from people I know
in real life
or people I know
in the wire
or people I've
never met
and that wondering changes me
changes my feelings
makes me second-guess
what I'm going to say
The only way my art can ever be
absolutely true
absolutely honest
absolutely Me
is if no one ever reads it
But what good is Expression
without Witness?
I need to have
an audience of strangers
for each poem
total strangers
that I will never have to see again
Or I should tag my poems on walls around town
in the middle of the night
like my little brother
(oh, gods, what if he reads this??!)

Fuck you
I'm leaving it in

Faced...

I don't know what to look like anymore.

My hair doesn't match my beard.  And neither match my general appearance as a middle-aged boy in tee-shirt and sneakers.  My outward "look" has become a mish-mash of favorite pieces culled from various looks I've worn over the years, plus some things I've just made up, all stitched back together like a patchwork riot.

I don't know what to do about this.  Or if I should even do anything.  It's just something I noticed this morning, and felt I should share.  (And it was short.  I don't have time to write out any of the other, more important things I have to share, because they are complicated and involved and I am stupid fucking busy right now.  [Like, literally, stupid-busy.  My busy-ness is directly related to the stupidity of others.])

I guess this situation bothers me, now that I've noticed it.  But I'm not quite sure how, exactly.  Or why.  I think perhaps because it was apparently accidental, and I hadn't noticed it before.  Like, I have absolutely no problem going out in public looking like a complete dork.  I've done it many times.  But in each of those instances, that's what I was going for.  In this situation, on the other hand, I don't really know how I look at all.  I've been concentrating on the individual elements so closely that I've lost sight of the overall picture of how they all fit together.  And I found it disconcerting to suddenly realize, "Oh, shit!  How did I end up looking like this??  Does it look good or not?  Fuck, I can't even tell anymore!  And I have no idea what else I would rather do instead."

Wah, wah; boo hoo.  Whatever.  Again, not a major problem, but just something I noticed and felt like writing down.

The Hole In The Middle Of Every Spring...

I never know how to feel on Mother's Day
My mother killed herself
She checked into a hotel room
without telling anyone
and took a bottle of sleeping pills
one at a time
until they were all gone
and then she laid down
and put herself to sleep
She did it to escape the pain
yes
She did it to save herself
certainly
She did it to save us
undeniably
to save us
from her
from her madness
from her long pain
from her forever scream
She loved us so much
that she died
to protect us
from herself
She gave me life
and then she gave it to me again
saving my life
by sacrificing her own

So whose life
am I really celebrating
today?

And should the flowers
be daisies
or lilies?

Bottled Up...

Another day where I can't bring myself to post anything I've written.

I have so much to say, but I can't bring myself to say any of it.

It's only a matter of time now.