March 22, 2005

I stroll about with incontinent brain functions, meager hopes and self described squalid surroundings. I smell remnants of old sex in body odor on public transportation and keep my boots ready for the thaw and the inevitable sickly-sweet manure to spread out upon the land scraped from the horizons of my window. I have lost myself in bottles and searched for the youth in half pints, pressing only my will to plant my feet on the ground the next day. Heel down on thumb tacks, future indefinite defying the prospects of the Spring with self motivational speeches petering out in mumbles. Hope in substances its subjective to the reader. Its reminiscent of the time you go to the ATM and forget the PIN although you never really had to think about it before it seemingly disappeared . Amongst the numbers on the pad the combinations innumerable. So here I sit tryin to decipher decode and protract from the shambles a semblance and with the Spring placin her head upon the block, winters feet swinging from the gallows, I await summer's head to be revealed from the mask of the executioner. Its merely a cautionary tale of the seasonally depressed, I lose friends and direction in the cold months, a ocean man expatriated to the banks of the Connecticut River feeling sorry for myself because I lack the courage to explore. So this expatriate expatiates, attempting to do what I have to do every year. It could be ameliorated by Zoloft, Paxil, or the like, but my grey day struggles enable me to wear shorts in 40 degree weather and not bitch about a rainy day in May. I am one out of many that suffers from this affliction and yet I never stop worrying about my friends, the people who are there for me and the ones that I figured always would be. Granted this writing is one sided and face to face conversations alleviate verbosity with eye contact, but its all that I have left in some cases in one case one night and into another bottle the next, I'll genuflect to the people who have no one because they some how fuck it up of their own accord at every corner and with every chance they get. If I was only half as dirty as they say I am at times, I'd be them ten fold. Its still bad in the mornings, slightly better by noon, and by the time its dark I'm ready to take on the world as it sleeps. When most people do sleep, I dote on my liver and have conversations with myself making lines of demarcation with every drinking straw that I snip down to size. Then I proceed to bump my head straight for the next fifteen minutes tryin to eye out an imaginary finish line... in a metric world, I still give out pounds to those with their hoodies up in the fray. I grew up in Bugle Boy fashions in a land of Gaps and trying to fill them has all but plum tuckered me out. Ashing my butt with audible taps, I've got nothing else to do but put a period. The geese came back today.

KandK for life, Dave