Like 5-hour energy. Tiny bottles. Rocket-booster to brain. I've got to shorten up these posts. Attention spans, man. Like Twitter. Or poetry. Says a former student.
Much of one’s life is what the Gmail gods bring. What is it to be a writer? A good line will carry me for days. That's a lie. Hours. Lie. Three minutes, if I’m being generous.
A poet writes about Americans: “Few become great. But they wish to." I should know. There’s no appetite for normal. Not in me.
How's the baby, everybody asks. Cute!!!!!! Mouse’s friends text. One of my college comp students once wrote about the burden of beauty. Paradoxically, good looks have eviscerated her self-worth. Without long legs, cleavage, ass, what am I?
Another poet: “I offer you this world like a knife.” He says existence is a curse. Banished from paradise. Talking about Adam. From Hebrew for man, or literally one who came from the ground. I think atom is more apt. The paradox that loneliness is the bi-product of the World Wide Web.
I've never had an anxiety attack. This morning there was a hot spot in my lower esophagus. Felt so similar to panic. Mouse said sounds like more than melancholy. Your mom died this time of year, she said. I took the dropper and squeezed more St. John's wart on my tongue. Sweet and tangy, and a former alcoholic, I could have tilted my head back and downed the bottle.