cereal after sex

The sky was sea green beneath the clouds that were curled up and ready to punch. The road was dirt, long, straight. Stretching toward a horizon the color of ghost milk. Oh, to just live in a different world… One that doesn’t ache every day, one that doesn’t break a man to pieces. I am tired of the black reality I wake up to every day. A man in lockjaw within a society all twisted out of shape. If stars could be stair steps, I’d walk all the way to space… Moonlight through winter limbs falls on a stone house, lights on in the windows, souls gyrating through hallways and closets, and I want to fall to the Faroe Islands, to be w rapped in green and mist. What am I? Anymore. I’ve fallen onto mental hard times. I’ve lost interest in everything. I lack passion, curiosity, the will. If I’m not at work, I am mostly in bed. I’m irritable and aggravated. I want to punch the world. I want to kick and scream through a wall in a black house with a roof made of grass. I long and ache for olden golden days. It all seemed so less complicated, less chaotic, fewer swarms of terrible people bent on destroying the world. The sword of stupidity has slayed us all. And we worship the weakest men and women among us, while the best of us die in factories or bars.

An open window, a candle, a computer, a book, a pen, and notes. The forest outside, the lake, the hills, the calm, the peace, the will to live regained in a grain of real life. Right now, I am cold, dirty, and sad that my soul feels drained. I go to bed much earlier than I used to. I just don’t have the interest in doing anything to occupy my time. I’m like a log with a frazzled brain. A fragile psyche. Tootsie Rolls in my teeth, death at my feet. October’s charm on the horizon. To hell with the heat. A gnat in my coffee, that’s the reality of my life. No more winter windows, or mountains, or lakes. Just heat and ugliness. Sadness. Existing to just be poor, to struggle, to work a job that makes you want to throw yourself in front of a dump truck. For what? For what? For what? To just spin and spin and spin. To never be able to do anything.  

Hunched over black piano in dark room. The walls absorb the depression. Head bowed, shadow lost. Stairs climb to nowhere. A kitchen has no heartbeat. The frame has no picture.

But there, wrapped in the blankets of my world, she sleeps. Peacefully, beautifully. My lifeline. My heart. My soul. My comfort. My love. She is why I hang on.