You and me

in a king-sized bed

the world going by

and thoughts in my head

In here, you heal

all the places I thought dead

with sheets that are white

and walls that are red.

So whisper again

that sweet thing you said,

and save me again

from the thoughts in my head.

Today I literally want to cry.
Right here at my desk.
In front of everyone.
Who knew that a spreadsheet had such power?

Things That are Red

There is something to be said

for things that are red.

Lips and heads and hearts and hair,

Souls that are heavy, skin that is fair,

only when they are red

do they fend off the dead.

The MeMeMe of Addiction

My partner is currently trying to kick her nicotine habit for about the 300th time in the 5 years that we have been coupled. It has me doing some thinking around addiction.

I am an addict too: Food. Internet. Not much else, but do I really need anything else with those two heavy-hitters on my plate?

One of my exes was a sex addict.
Another of my exes was a gambling addict.
Yet another was an alcoholic.
And another was a cokehead.

Perhaps we addicts circle each others orbits until we finally land in that soft warm bed of "I will enable you as long as you enable me" with one another.

One thing I have learned from being with so many addicts and from being an addict myself is that without an INCREDIBLE layer of selfishness, addiction has a hard time surviving. I think back to all of the zombie-like stares over plates of Coke, slot machines, pipes, and bottles and I layer it with my own self-involved satisfaction after chowing down on a plate of macaroni. Extra cheese please.
There is something to be said for the indulgence. The selfish "push eveyrthing in the world aside so I can get my immediate need met" demand for want-need-want-need.

The revolutions between disgust and awe get tighter and tighter depending on how close you are to the situation.

Not because I am a hater of mankind,
But because I am a lover of graceful silence,
I would demand today
that the universe
put a sock in it.

~aw

Orbiting:

Orange Dog

Homemade chicken pot pie

Velvet couch

Lemon-scented dishwashing

Rainy day

Death: A Musing on the End

40 hours a week, it works

56 hours a week, it sleeps

7 hours a week, it eats

Sometimes it is in traffic

Sometimes in line,

sometimes in the tub

It processes food and feelings,

it breaths and shits,

it tries desperately to connect

across the lanes,

through the windows,

on paper,

on the screen.

It grays and wrinkles,

the mind and heart wilt,

ultimately, it is alone,

in the beginning

and in the end.

It goes out the way it comes in,

crying and scared,

or shaking and angry,

either way, it goes out

and it is not a magic birthday candle,

it does not re-light.

At some point,

it goes in the ground,

in the sea,

up in the air as ash,

and memory.

It is just gone.

There are no applause,

no red velvet curtains to close,

No period.

No darkness.

No light.

And in an instant,

we are gone,

and the line moves up to fill the gap,

an endless droning,

an emotionless march,

lemmings jumping,

one by one,

into the big nothing.

aw