Starlight upon Waking

Night passes between dreams of death, or being just a little ahead of death, which is just a form of hunger, which now I know. When I wake and Chrisoula is not here but on the couch downstairs, sick and scared of her sickness. When the moon is full, when werewolves discourse on the nexus between menses and the missionary zeal of early Christian apostles. Oh darling won't you help me clear out the attic?

Country songs, some band playing down at the park, mostly unrecognized until a stretch where they play Lynyrd Skynyrd, Tom Petty and Molly Hatchett's Flirtin' with Disaster, which as a kid I liked for all the wrong reasons. When night falls and the moon appears late over hills on the other side of which Emily Dickinson lived and wrote. We are atomic and acosmic, we are also kind of an asshole when it comes to talking about poetry.

Put another comma in that sentence son! I remember learning what kind of man I did not want to become while studying all those dead animals and the many weapons used to kill and dismember them and about fifty years and ten thousand fuck-ups later, mission mostly accomplished. Om shanti om shanti oh never mind.

Yet starlight upon waking, making coffee alone in the kitchen shivering in August, grateful for another season in which to wear sweatshirts. People die and those who live bury them and then move on from the graves, hence ghosts. I'm happier than I expected to be but still perceive some responsibility unmet, as if a pilgrim in the distance were staggering towards me, a handwritten message from Jesus tucked into his pocket. Beyond the swaying maple trees, a church steeple decorated with starlings. "Looks like we got ourselves a convoy." Kisses, caterwauls, cantelopes.

Counting down the days! I remember being angry at W.S. Merwin for making me think about the anniversary of my death, which every year I must pass unbeknownst. Also, I remember saying to a therapist once "I might as well see a psychic for all the good you're doing me" and he said quietly "my wife is a psychic," and I learned something in that moment about slowing down and just generally being less of a dick. Now I'm lost in a song by Air Supply, now I'm pretending to hang glide.