Ennui as ever

Foggy day
slow
quiet
alone.

The last two weeks
a lot of those
drifting
shifting

energy to ennui.
A tentacled darkness

welcomes me.

This City
grinds my bones.

This is the dip
after the plateau
after the upward arc.

This is
the is
we all get.

I need to spit
venom.

I need to name this.



Sometimes, I wish that a kiss
would cure me

but magic is
not that simple.

Holy Trinity in New Orleans

a threesome of ingredients
the basis
the base
she is fluttery
well-dressed
quietly aggressive
black
Betty Paige
hair

triphammering heart trapped by triplets

texts
missed phone calls
disappearance

the Human trinity
the two of us
and the other that is us

Needed apparently

the rain was swirling
splashing
everywhere
vortex
people running
wet skin
hat clutching
red light ignoring
sirens on all sides
the streets deep water
curb to curb suddenly
eleven texts
two from a wannabe poet
four from roommates
four from old friends
one mystery
all from sometime
before the storm

when the thunder shook my bed
this morning
I felt it between my legs
and laughed
thinking of someone

I wanted
moon
sunshine
heat
dance of electricity
between pics

never offering
thumbnails
satisfying briefly
her name

escapes my lips
as I turn and sigh

today
a new morning
again

Circle circle

it plateaus
it always does

you may prepare and know
this but
it still gets you

drumming her fingers on the dashboard
she says
inevitable cycles annoy me

the wind shifts the car indifferently
the dust collects

his smile falls as he thinks
of mileage and the map
he left

another unfinished journey
like
the last

For a meal

thirty-three percent pay cut
same job
same hours

she listens to
every
single table

going around
about money
jobs
and savings

constant reminders

that her husband hasn't
held a steady job
for three years

about to lose the house
and a beautiful daughter
finished with college...

she removes another plate
and thinks

no one tells you

it can go sideways
at any time

as
a plate shatters

"God enters through the wound"

odd
she-wolf voice
from a young
white boy

a song about the moon
sung snarled
moaned

young white
boy
his angular blues

like a howling
electric angel knowing
the dead only
speak to the dead

and all angels
equal
voyeurs lost

looking
despite
not because
of
the moon

Not its content but its resonance

25 degrees is crazy motherfucking cold here
I take deep breaths after three beers
and feel awake and amused
happy
with this life this year
is a confluence of 38
years
of trying
and flailing and hugging shadows
and thinking the dark
was honey was spark
and the deep
deep
deep
inspiration and ignoring the destruction
destitution
that denial was the Art was
the pre-determined prerequisite for inspiration
the black outs and the bottle counts
somehow
all
clinks
like glass breaking glass
a sharp bright shock
that fades to an unsatisfying
conclusion
that took years
and many bottles
to reach
but whatever
did it
I do not care
God bless you
new year