jaeci

I am writing about the hunt.
I am writing about dream-state sensory disasters
I am writing about the fourth woman who told me she loved me.

And I am writing about being fucked in a shower by an ex-lover, only I am the lover, and the lover is me.


But at this very moment, I am writing about something else:

I have a friend who sent me a collection of poems in the mail
even though we are practically neighbors

I have another friend who got a story accepted for publication
and it seems I was the first person he saw after he got the news
I brought two shot glasses and a bottle of Chivas to his apartment,
all gifts from wonderful people who love me in different ways
I thought to share their gifts would be to continue a positive pattern
and I am quite glad I did,
as taking shots of decent scotch
is rather decadent, indeed.

I must be clear,
these are platonic relationships,

and I must not forget
another friend, older still,
who brings me poems at the bar.

I am ever appreciative of the creative souls who think I am worthy of their words
or their paint or their songs
Whether I am merely a recipient of their art
or a part of it.




Thoughts today... maybe sometimes you feel this shit too...

I don't pretend to understand life,
or my place in it

I can't figure out
if the pretty girls who call me
are interested

I can't figure out
what I'll wear tomorrow

I can't figure you
how to spell words
I've never seen written

I can't figure out
how to sleep comfortably

I can't figure out
very much at all


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