I get too drunk sometimes but
I live well and
am happy
Not like stumbling
bumbling
fool type drunk, but more so like
I’m alone and
I can’t get the song to turn up enough and
I want everything all at once and
the trees are singing to me like oh Ayla
you’re so pretty
you can do anything but
not without a healthy dose of
self deprecating
Feeling my pores widen like trypophobia
akin to rocks on the beach, littered by waves that
turn solids into sands and
my hands find pleasure and my heart
finds perfect contentment
digging deep within it
I have all this energy inside that wants to be expressed sexually and
I yearn for stimulation but also the
momentous occasion of
my soft presence sitting alone in this brown wooden chair
with the beige upholstery
the one that Connie purchased for me
from a man who insisted that she buy it with the desk
because his wife always sat in it and
that’s how he remembers her and therefore they
must be sold as a set
I’m so open and okay with the nature of people and pain and love
But I’m sad and overwhelmed
a puddle of emotion
foggy brained
a money spender like no other
such a hard fucking worker
now the owner of two pairs of loafers
inspired by daddy and the gold chains and rolexes
of his younger days
I want to cry and curl into someone’s arms
want to take a bath in her rosemary bath salts
want to stop wanting things
Feeling heavy like the Marias, but
last night I went to bed with a smile on my face and
finished the Anthony Bourdain book and cried
because its visceral and veritably raw enough to
make me wonder
Am I Ginger reincarnated?
Am I Jennifer?
Am I a tree in the Gifford Pinchot?
Will I ever be able to let go of my past, and
do I even want to?
I’m me. Sometimes
I’m whatever you want me to be
I’m a wino, but I got a hold on myself
In a love affair with me
floating in a self indulgent pool of
out-of-touch ecstasy
wavering in and out of reality, but
I think I just have anxiety and
I like to convince myself that I’m crazier than the average person
but fucking come on
we’re literally all bumbling fools
bouncing down fresh pavement
feeling good about things that are smoothed over on the surface
but caught wondering what
if anything
is actually worth it
I’m not much of a writer
nothing like Tony Bourdain, that drunken fuck pulls
fancy phrases out his ass like a french demi-glace
and I keep trying to start a dictionary
full of words to learn but there’s too much to do and
I guess that’s what keeps me going in life
the sheer curiosity and the busyness and the
resultant self imposed strife and
Besides the fact that I’m no good, I’d like to think that I’m still a poet and
I get away with it because I let loose when I get a pen in my hand
become the truest expression of the woman that
I have come to be in this realm of reality
Who is she?
Just another bumbling fool
dancing down dark pavement and
It’s a full moon but
too cold to be outside
so here I sit, chained to Connie’s desk
back bones caving into themselves in this god forsaken
wooden chair and
I hope that tonight
I do justice to that man’s wife