November

We have a brief chance at finding truth each morning, and if we pass it by falling back asleep, or staring out the window and wishing it wasn’t gray again, and raining cold as church on Monday, then the whole day is thrown over the balcony with the blanket and baby and the bath water, the dirty toilet bowl seat cover, the yellowed wall paper because that’s the one room where we can smoke cigarettes, it used to be white I guess at some point. I used to believe in what I said at some point, I didn’t question any of it because John was the only one who was going to read it, and I know he’s as utterly mad as I am so he’ll get what I’m saying. I mean if something really needed to be changed he would say it but we don’t get so caught up on these formal elements that everyone seems to be so on about; we use them as they come to us not because of what they are. We don’t get hung on much of anything, we like to hear language out loud as it was originally, so I speak and John sings and plays the guitar and it’s all simple. When I start bringing in other people they always feel a need to immediately give me their opinion, like, how bout I don’t give a shit a bout your opinion, if I did, I would ask for it, not write a fucking poem and bare my goddamn soul to you, take the gift I’m giving you and relish your own silence the way I look forward to being alone at the end of the day.