Someone drops on you the concept that from the day you are born you die a little every day. OK, fine, but no one owns that, not really. It is funny then that we just react so strongly of the thought of dying just a little bit faster. Your life is terminal, but this cancer is even more terminal. Your life is leading at a free fall to some yet to be determined place on the map, but this disease is just speeding up your descent towards the crash site. Some graph where you leave the womb at some flat velocity, first derivative of acceleration flat, until the day that you find out, oh hey, that derivative is ramping and you are reaching higher speeds, trickier patterns, no more doctored data or denials, terminal velocity.

Sinking into a bar chair, sawdust smell mixing with the smell of spilled spirits and music loud enough to displace the dust on the paintings and even the stiffest Dewar's drunk. Cousin Maudlin, down from New England for the summer, eschewing easy evenings on the Esplanade, now standing here I, hat in hand, asking for some kind of cold comfort in black like physiognomy is such a common reference point that other people should read into the context clues--carting around scotched-up red eyes on a IT department plastic cart with a broken swivel wheel and a background chorus "Amy, look at this black mark! It comes all the way from the door towards the stairs... what got in here? Can you call Jimmy over, please, it's unsightly." Oh my god, oh my good god, laughing from the sidelines of someone else's life, spectating free of charge getting the glimpse into someone else's broken moments. Hey Elle, where did you go after our sorority summer? Who is your best man now? How many more downward dogs until Zen - Pax? How many more salads until you get to ring the bell? I'll be in the back room, drinking my half of the beer, right out of the fucking bag, ya know? eyes turned up to Heaven's Gate in mid-flight. But our dear cousin isn't having fun. Learn to wear sneakers and take a deep breath, it just doesn't matter anymore. You'll be fine, and then you won't be, and either way it won't matter in the interim how much you enjoy it, so wear a smile at least. You'll get fewer wrinkles.

And maybe this is what it feels like. Not gutshot pain, not even the pain of a papercut, but an ache that you couldn't point to on a doll but you can visualize as something that is no longer the right color, signals from neighbors ignored, a comical Lucy in the chocolate shop with a more bittersweet ending. There's no pause button on the conveyor belt so the mistakes only compound. Objects with fancy names that you only learn when they have a gun aimed between your eyes. Give me all your money and good sweet lord you will give them your fucking money and everything you've got, Hero, you will weep for mankind dear Hero, you won't save anyone today, darling Hero, and when you wake up with makeup still caked on your face like some literal manifestation of the lies you scattered behind you like some kind of Hansel and Gretel shit trail back to the house, precious Hero, when the day comes when you are just to tired to do the very basic things required for entry into the VIP you'll hear the deafening rumble of sounds that are outside of your sonic range, something that is well higher than 60khz and lower than 10hz and is at some decibel level that would make even the most molly soaked Burning Man attendee fall from their welded precipice of imagined realization in the form of a giant statue of a Priest with a simple man on his shoulder, whispering the truth, the rumble that you can feel in your ears not as a sound but as pressure, sweet Jesus do you feel that pressure, all of the sudden aware of the way you are wearing your clothes the way Adam and Eve became aware of being naked or the first time you went to a party and realized you had no idea how to dress, clothing shifting in the pulsing air of the sound and you, sweet Hero, breaking down into silent tears, a martyr for nothing and for no one. 

I have my own problems and I don't care. Here's my number.

No one told us how to breathe but we sucked for air until we broke through. No one told us how to play but we know how. No one told us how to love but we figure it out. No one told us what it will feel like to die, to feel the slow pull of gravity, ignorant of mass or design, will its realization come in time or are we millenniums away from evolving to the point where we can handle the most basic of tasks, the grand release as the curtains fall and our act comes to a close? Or will we be left to try to put words behind something so simple and binary, that you day you are here and the next you cease to exist, and your only job is your only superpower: to do the best that you can with what you have, as long as you are so lucky to have it, because They can take that from you, and you had better fucking believe that they will.

Good show ya fucking legend! Now a bit more'da brown and tell me a story about life back in Eireann--and Jaysus no fucking Galway Bay this time, OK? I want to to remember it like the stouries, not like the visions, I can handle that on me own. 

And Good God what is that noise?


These are the barely noticeable faux-victories that pass for accomplishments now. Trophy lives.

Something that never got published from years ago

"That's how it starts..."

And that is how it starts, isn't it, now years later plied with the same drinks at a cheaper price even by inflation standards, lower tolerance and a larger pocket teeming with reasons to make the same decisions that have become so vilified. We turn the engine on.

"But can you drink it down?"

And honestly it's hard, it's not as easy and the anxiety creeps in and proves to be more feeling ever could have been apparent years ago when these same methods were subverting anxiety, not subsidizing it. And I'm looking for another way to find that I've got nothing to say.

"I hope I can keep seeing you..."

But it's not that easy anymore for all the obvious reasons, but strangely it's as compelling as it ever was, not moreso and no less so, just and equal pull, consistent as a magnet (science! magnets! (how do they work?)). You are easy to miss. As long as you don't say we're falling in love.

"What a lovely way with words"

It's the only way I know how--"who loves me, who loves me?" and "who do I love?" "and how?" and so many other questions with impossibly long and untrue answers, coated in paint and drying, fast. And act so down. Is that the way you see the world?

"If you were here, baby we'd increase the dose"

And isn't that always the way, then the anxiety takes a backseat to something else that need be forced down, but in one of the most obvious and least surprising episodes (to everyone but the people you inhabit for the several hours between the 5th drink and the alarm) that can be imagined. Call me anytime.

"She makes me feel so ill at ease"

And that's what it comes down to isn't it, that Hamlet, am an attendant lord, not a lead part and variable to the end, sane when the wind turns one way and dragged by my nose and eyes down a hillside when the wind comes back. And my heart, good lord,

My heart is really on its sleeve.

But then, where are your friends tonight?


The tradeoff.

No one tells you that as you move up and to the right, there is a not a clearing, as Heidegger would have you obsess on, but rather a crowding. There is a crowding that suffocates the ability to show your feelings at work, to tune them in outside and to get them down on paper.

I wave my hand to dissipate this stale air to bare a stolid facade but my hand is slow and the stream is thick and the flash of the camera hits thick particles, forming a blinding wall like headlights in a fog, leaving me sitting, alone, in silence.


"She loves the singer, every song can bring her close to tears
But when she talks about his band it just confirms her mother's fears
A little crush on the singer but in her heart she knows it's true
Everything is different when he's singing right to you

Her mother says honest, it's alright to be a singer
But don't you love a singer whatever you do

Let the crowd press on the stage
And let the lights wash out their eyes
Sixteen years ago I was completely mesmerized
And then the night was done and the singer disappeared behind the stage
And the roadies came and picked me out from on the barricade

Honest, it's alright to be a singer
But don't you love a singer whatever you do, whatever you do

I wouldn't change for a moment my life or my ideals
But once I loved a singer and I know just how you feel
For him to say so plainly what your heart can vouch is true
Means something is connecting you, something is connecting you

Honest, it's alright to be a singer
But don't you love a singer whatever you do, whatever you do
Don't you love a singer
Don't you love a singer"



"My arms miss you
My hands miss you
The stars sing, i've got their song in my head
Oh, I don't want my words twisted
I don't want you to listen to close
Or wait for me impatiently

And I hope I can keep seeing you
As long as you don't say you're falling in love

[And I can feel you're about to forget]"