downbeat

These aren’t the words I intended. To most it probably seems they never are. The poem I was working eluded me, and the subsequent despair surprised even me. You think I’d be used to it, after fifty years of my emotional volatility and frustrated longings. Instead, I’m sweeping up glass, and dragging the page through my vacant skull. Instead, I’m thinking yet again about where to leave my corpse. 

The writing is a thing to do, a placeholder that’s supposed to keep me thinking about writing like doing it is accomplishing something, like “well, at least I have that.” It isn’t supposed to elevate me or get any better or even be understood, though all of those things might be okay. It’s supposed to keep the shark swimming, that’s all. That it is terribly upsetting doesn’t help much, but usually I can use the momentum of the emotion to fuel something. Shame and disgust are all I got tonight.

I feel horrible. The things I can’t say, the things I don’t say, and the things I shouldn’t have said are all sharing a cab in my head. I think they’re going to just drive around all night with the meter running. The black dog, the blue blazes, and the lonely heartedness all here to tell me to get on with getting gone. Sorry for the repetition, but this is where I live. Sorry for the same old song, but it’s the one that’s on.