PSA

I despise small talk.

If you have a question, ask me.

If you don’t, don’t.

Don’t make up a question because you are uncomfortable with silence. As a general rule, I prefer the voice in my head (IE, my own voice) to that of strangers.

I’m antisocial and distrust strangers. I don’t like mindless small talk. I do not care about the weather or your daughter’s friend’s birthday.

Sorry.

I fight sleep because I don’t want it to be morning.

Just figured that out.

Also, thanks M. Wasn’t sure about that piece.

Taylor (and Patricia and Brittany and…)

There are phone numbers
I wish I still had. I am
as close to “ghost”
as one can get today-
living and liking it…mostly…
But there have been snips
around edges I thought
were rough-
that really just…
hadn’t grown in yet.
I’m really not a regretful guy
but I really am a reflective one.
And all I know-
tonight-
on a night when
the Real Damn Journal came out…
is there are bridges out there
remarkably unburned
I simply tore up the directions to.
And I want those digits back.

Speechless

I don’t have anything to say. That’s odd for me. And I can’t force out a poem, nor have I been able to marshal my thoughts into a coherent enough form to put together a piece of prose of any length or decency. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, not having anything to say. Like my mind abandoned me. My emotions haven’t, nor have my empathy or my desire to reach people…but reach them with what? That’s the problem…and it has translated itself into a grinding feeling in the pit of my stomach and a kind of confusion. I feel…frustratedly mute, tonight. Like all I’m really capable of doing is listening…but all I hear is a circulating fan and the popping of a candle wick. I really hope it goes away.

Lying under my desk.
The most at ease I’ve been all day.

Ahem.

Just downloaded the soundtrack to A Night At The Roxbury. Will not be writing any more tonight.

Priorities, people, priorities.

I wonder…
in all seriousness…
are people really living
better lives than this?
Everyone I know is
doing the same-
or close.
So why
do I always feel
both unfulfilled and
that I’m somehow lacking?
It’s not too bad-
just boring, really.

Sometimes all it takes
is one simple thought
to ruin what would have
been a wonderful early
night of sleep that you
were looking forward to
like when you’re just about
to say something and then
someone cuts you off.

"Everyone else did?
It never even occurred
to me to think that way.”

And there goes four hours
as quickly as a freight train
but not nearly as majestic
or useful or relevant or
worthwhile and when the
freight train is gone you
don’t have to worry that
it might come back at the
same moment tomorrow.

Sometimes you grind too hard, too far down. And then suddenly there’s nothing left but anger and frustration-but not the kind of frustration you can do anything with. Just the kind that makes you look like a ranting lunatic and a hack. That’s kind of where I am, so if there’s anyone actually looking for my stuff, then first of all thank you, and second of all I’m sorry. I just ain’t got it right now.

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