Day 6: Vesper Martini

Six plaid gloryholes. The last time I tasted caffeine. The last time I tasted you. How I can’t smell anything without smelling the corporate musk that masks our humanity.

Give the senators their marrow. Give the heartaching their vestigials. Give Bacchus his girdle. Gigawatt Hours. Plastic Porters. Barn Storming Jerks.

Day 5: Loving Subtweets

The idea of doing this every day is tripping me out. I don’t feel like committing to a thing. Not really sure what the big deal is. It’s not like I’m getting married. Right? You can’t believe two scepters dancing on the edge of a twilight firestorm, anyway. Love.

Day 4: “They shoot horses, don’t they.”

Bourbon or whimsy.

Not a theme I could write about easily. These aren’t my wheelhouses.

What are my wheelhouses?

Detox. Cold Turkey. Systems. Theories. Being broken-bodied.

In the end we are all dressage horses. Except for dressage horses. They’re something rarefied by metaphor. Shot, glue, diseased, old age. In the end we are all factory goods on the way to the furnace. This is why cremation feels most appropriate to me — I was worthless in life. Do not confer worth upon my husk in death.

Whoever you are: I want you to embarrass me in public. I want you to take me home and put me in positions that make me feel like half a human being, and I want you to make me cry. I want you to slap me in the face and tell me I’m a shit.

I’m a worm. Love me like one.

Day 3: I guess we’re really doing this.

Couldn’t believe the thrum of a wound underwater. Pulsing away and the blood dissipating in a red cloud. The vein kathrump-ing. 

The idea is to let the pain manifest and be born and live its whole energetic life inside of you, and then accept it and listen to it break harmlessly on the shores inside your head.

Don’t worry about the water. Pain can’t boil water.

And love can’t dissuade the world from being painful. That’s its nature.

Sit on the porch and spit fire.

Day 2: “How Naked Are We Going To Get?”

True affection waits.

But I’m going to need to flip the script. Because true affection didn’t wait for Caliban. You know? Frankenstein’s son — not his monster, his son — couldn’t count on his father to teach him the weirding ways of loving. And sure, we are business casual. Monstrousness is not reduced as an internal quantity. Think of how many major crimes are committed with a smile. Caliban beats his chest and gives wings to his own violence. Prospero games the island, bends it to his will.

Give it some centuries. We’ll all be Calibans in Prospero skins, with Prospero affectations. We will spend decades trying to reconcile the two. If we can’t, we’ll go mad.

No biggie. We’ll go mad.