It’s been so long since I wrote anything of meaning that it’s tempting to get lost in some idea of where to start and what to say, but let’s instead do this:

Start with the rage. It’s always the right place. It’s always the most important place, the truest place, the purest.

We live in a country where all the right thinking folk were unable to stop the speeding train of intense, surreal fuckery. They couldn’t even slow it down. We have a reality television caricature as a president, we have plots unfolding that would be deemed too absurd for an episode of Twin Peaks or the X-Files or a cheap Skinemax film. Everyone the president touches is fucked, and no one fucks back. A doddering old man wandering our airstrips, our monuments, other countries, our collective consciousness, with no idea who he is or what he’s about, and not a single one of us can stop him.

I don’t know. Who ever truly dreamed we would be ruled by what amounts to little more than an orange pile of saliva and semen?



What if every time you felt something about someone or something that you felt like you couldn’t say to that person, about that something, even though you knew it would make you feel about a million times better for at least one second, and that that one second of a million would make all the seconds of feeling like dirt and shit and saliva mixed together on a shoe shoved into a face worth it, totally worth it, you said that something to someone you didn’t care about at all? Do you think that would help? I mean, you wouldn’t tell them you didn’t feel it about them, you would just say whatever it is you think it would help to say, like “The sound of you laughing, throaty and low, is maybe the best thing I’ve ever heard and I would do anything, no matter how fucking ridiculous, just to hear it again” or “Immediately after I started loving you, I started hating you and just kept going and I don’t see any other way for it to have gone and now that’s all that’s left and I don’t even remember what loving you was like” or “yes, that’s right, it was me that killed your dog that time and I am not even kind of sorry and I would do it again” or “I hope you fucking die, but more than that I hope that everyone you love dies in front of you, you terrible fuck” or “I have never had sex that terrible in my entire life, what is wrong with you” or “when you smile, things go crooked and I can’t walk straight’ or “I don’t even ever want to have sex with you, I just want you to kiss me and then I want to keep knowing you forever” and then you would wait awhile and see if it helped. 
I do not understand why we are not all doing this already. Unless I don’t know, we are? 

I feel us like a bomb under heavy water, lonely riders all only occasionally knowing that we are not lonely, not alone, not even riding but standing. In opposition, in your midst, in solidarity and enraged. We are, we do, we must endure and we endure and we do endure, all for the hope of a change, a movement barely perceptible if you are not awake at night, all night, waiting for news of a shift, this shift, any shift away from the universal no, the almighty ostritching that is everyone saying no to knowing, saying no to doing anything about what we would have no choice but to know if only we would open our eyes. I feel us like an engine with only the faintest memories of combustion– I feel us waiting to explode and desperately trying to remember how. I feel us and I wonder if I have gone insane, if it is going insane that would make a person know that they are not alone out here, that they are not the only one waiting for a yes, waiting for a sign, waiting for a voice, waiting to be a voice, waiting to stop waiting. If it is going insane that would make wanting something so badly while wanting it’s exact opposite at the same time seem like not going insane.  

I can’t remember the weather the night we met. I want to say it was cold, but how would I know? Drunk is the best jacket, after all, and I was, as is so often the case, either drunk or well on my way. I can’t remember the weather, but I remember that I was on the verge of being rude. It seems sometimes that I am always either on the verge of being rude, or being rude. 


Maybe it was the whiskey, the weather I don’t recall, the strange city we stood in, or the quick glimpse I caught of the lines around your eyes. Whatever changed my mind, it changed it fast, and I decided without deciding, without knowing that a decision had been made, to be charming instead. Or some version of it. 


We talked. What we talked about is another of the many things I don’t and won’t recall throughout however long we know one another. It could have been important, it probably was. But if it was, it isn’t, and if it wasn’t, it still isn’t. It hasn’t become any part of whatever story we’re writing here, and it’s too late now. I know you just a little still, but that little tells me that you don’t recall either. 
You know what I was wearing, and you know what I was doing when you first saw me, but you don’t know what I said to you. You were watching my lips, but you weren’t reading them. Then, when your lips were on mine, a circumstance I may have caused, I wasn’t speaking anymore, and the words I wasn’t saying didn’t matter any more than the words that I was. 


I was full of whiskey you didn’t buy me, and joy you didn’t bring me, and something told me I would know you. 


And so I do, after a fashion. 


It kills me, as it always will, that you think you know me. That you think you can read me, and predict me. That you believe you have figured me out, and that you are never going to be right, because no matter how well I get to know you, I’ve already figured out that you will never get to know me. I’m not really certain why that’s the truth, but it is. I can’t figure out if it’s a lack of interest on your part, a lack of willingness on mine, some blend of both, or something more ethereal, something I can’t put a finger, my lips, or a name to. 


You told me not to fall in love with you, and it couldn’t have been less necessary. You are stunning, all wide shoulders, dimples, that smile and the eyes that make the smile never die. You are witty and sly, elusive and in the moments that you do exist, you make the world shrink and expand in time to some music only we can hear. But you are not a man I will fall in love with. It wasn’t likely, but when you assumed that I might, you killed the possibility in it’s sleep. It didn’t toss or turn, it simply died with a quiet sigh, and it was for the best. 


I want our now to be, and I want our now to be better than we think it is. I want our now to be adventures and excitements, I want the one thing I will not have. I do not want you to be my forever, I do not want you to fall in love with me and I do not want to go back and lazarus my being able to fall in love with you back into existence. I want, instead, for at least a moment during which you realize what I am. What I am capable of. I want you to look at me and know me. It is more my fault than yours that that is impossible, I am always, almost accidentally, telling tiny lies even when I am not speaking. I confuse myself, and I hide what is best about me. It is always this way, but given the limited nature of time, there is no time for you to find out what I am like when it ends. You will most likely never find out what happens when something is broken inside you, what happens when the sunlight hits and I feel we need to enjoy the world more than anyone else. 


Despite all this, I see something ahead, if not far ahead. I see something that won’t be unforgettable, but won’t be forgotten, either. 




I’m still looking forward to now.