Prone to Calypsos

We who are prone to calypsos.

 

There will be bagels again, there will be long breakfasts with friends.

 

This fear of certain women, which is a form of fearing women, which fear I must not be afraid of, lest I go forever unhealed.

 

Rain falling in furrows.

 

Quick hits of cannabis behind the barn, then back to the grill, Tom Petty songs in my mind. 

 

How I still love sitting on roofs and gazing at the moon, how my friend up there still sometimes speaks.

 

I miss you Dan, my whole life sometimes grounds out in how happy I was with you, and how lost I have been since we said goodbye in a Burlington snowbank, the cold turning me into something that didn’t care about death.

 

We’re not bodies, okay, what are we.

 

I liked adding and subtracting, found multiplication unnecessary (for where did you see it in the world), and thus I moved on from math.

 

One thing about witches is they don’t follow you, they call you to them.

 

How she sighs sometimes after, not always, and it always makes me happy, because it doesn’t always happen, it has to do with communion and not orgasm.

 

Forever moving on.

 

This hurt and anger the adults around me were always criticizing but never actually helping with.

 

A long drive to visit my mother, a longer drive back though the miles haven’t changed.

 

Candle moths, which don’t actually exist strictly speaking, but remain a label I use from time to time to describe the pale moths that visited me the day after we talked by phone the first time.

 

The man who is not prepared becomes skilled at faking it, at evasion, and at nurturing resentments.

 

The secret to Tarot is knowing there is only one story and it tells itself.

 

Men with whom I can share space without talking, that grace.

 

Tortured logic.

 

Yes, even salvation is just a concept, even that must be let go.