It all seems so obvious to me. The danger of a second glance. So incriminating. We all have a certain capacity to deceive ourselves and beyond that, it is a choice. Destiny, death, chance, circumstance, the car accident late at night. To some degree it is all a decision. So is the inability to look away. To stare in hopes of catching a small bit of flesh under the red and white sheet. We all have done it. Wondered about the attendance at our funeral. Who will be there? Will they cry? Will they tell the same cliché lies? “He was always happy. The life of the party. Everybody’s best friend.” Even then we chose. Even then. We find ourselves in this sick continual marathon of daily survival. And all the little things so difficult to make work. Am I bad enough? Should I be worse? Are the rumors true? Will I get the girl in the final reel? Is any of this real? Can’t she see through it? Why not? Would it be different if I were different? Of course it would. But blah, blah, blah and hum. Moments before I rage and beat on the window, screaming my throat raw and my hands bleeding until it breaks and leaves me numb. Knowing full well that we need a bigger boat, or a single farewell, or just a bloody chance. And will I finish first or last. And will I forgive myself my past. And will the wind fill my mast. As I come full circle with the keel raking barnacles across the wooden boards of my pride. My pride that I pull down in great gulps like grog. Toasting my benefactor and surrendering my hope to Peter Coffin, the owner and proprietor. But I’ll make an exception and I’ll bang a drum and call for war and reach a verdict without a jury, much less a trial. And I will confess that she is beautiful and vile. And all that I want and more. She’s the vestal virgin that prays like a whore. She’s the hinges on the wooden double door. And what do we mean? When is a goodbye ever good? And when has anything good been free? Maybe it should be costly bye. Or costly sold. Or maybe I’ll just be a stitched up tear on a pair of blue jean pants. Or maybe I’ll be as steadfast as a row of small black ants. Or maybe I’ll add up all my do’s and subtract all my cant’s to find my worth. Or seek rebirth. Or punch you till it hurts. Or maybe I’ll just be, and never really know who I am. And never really give a damn. And fetch the lost experience of my youth, while questioning my truth, but it won’t matter anyway, unless I find that truthful place that scares me to my core. That place I want to leave now. Once and for all with you. Can we? Can we leave here? I’m ready. My ladder is built. Can I go? Please say goodbye to my benefactor. I trust he’ll understand, like it or not. Tell him the snow melts at spring and things will grow again. Just don’t quit. See each snowfall as less than the blizzard and one day I will grow again. Till I drown. Drawn to the ocean to drink the water that tastes like my tears and see the reflection bending my years, and telling the sea shells to listen to the ocean in my ears. And all of this to you. To you who knows my fears. Drink. Drink my reason, drink my guess. Drink my treason. Drink my best. Drink with me till the last call of the beastly night kills our revels and sends us out to streets with fog made up of our collected breath on the wings of the cold, cold sky. And we’ll slay every dragon between here and home, because you’ll do as we do when you find you’re in Rome. Stay awhile. And perhaps even more, because I’m ending this now, how I began it before. Because it all seems so obvious to me. It all seems so obvious to me.  ¶ 4:25 PM