everything’s complicated
everything’s a struggle
have you noticed?
it’s a psychological horror
is this feeling the ‘adult disillusionment’ I keep hearing about?

I mean, things work, if you sit on them like an egg—
if your mother things along and helicopter a result.
I mean, what do people do who don't have
my resources and sunny disposition?

I get America’s increasing paranoia but I think that it's *** backwards. Even if someone's were out to ‘get’ you, no one actually cares about doing their job anymore. There's just so little competence around, that the dysfunction feels intentional. And because you need something and you’re helpless, you can't help but feel targeted.

But I think I figured it out, so let me elucidate—they aren't giving YOU bad service, it isn't personal—everyone is getting bad service, two pieces of chicken in the box when you ordered three, five day delivery when you’re clearly paying for two, failure’s become routine—endemic.

My go-to phrase has become, “What’ll it cost?” (the answer, usually: twice as much) “Make it so,” I say, swiping something with my Apple Watch, and suddenly, everything works!
.
.
A song for this:
decide to be happy by MisterWives

To call her
a dream would
be to shrink her
to a pile of thoughts
adrift in sleep’s
meandering grip

She is no
slip of thought
no wisp caught
on a waking’s revival—
but my mind’s
firm fist
my body’s
eager ******
my heart’s
vital breath

She is the hand that
takes the sky and sea
and turns them into plush pillows
to rest our heads upon—
laying beams
across what could collapse

No, she is
not dreamstuff—
but the builder
of what dreams
fear to
attempt—
a world meant
to be entered

Today, early on a
Saturday morning, I'm
trying a little trick I
learned from Bukowski.
I put on some classical
music and I am trying
to write.
Beethoven's 5th in C minor.

I sit in my favorite chair and
watch my black cat lie on the
back of the loveseat and
watch the snowfall.
She looks triumphant,
but it could just be the music.
The philodendrons that hang
around the house and the
bamboo plants seem happier, too.
There's no hope for the palm tree.

Well, the main thing is that I put the
pen to paper, and Beethoven,
my cat and you came along for the
ride.

Maybe the cellos, violins, and
trombones will fertilize my
creativity.
Now, my other two cats have joined
the fun.
They wrestle by the heater and laugh at
all the fat, rich *******.

Press play.

Essence fills the cold, biting air.
Thoughts drift back to the day we met.
Her words soothed my splintered heart, her presence made me feel safe.

The first time we spoke, nerves filled my soul.
This was not just a woman—this was a new feeling,
a blessing,
a gentle kiss laced with understanding.

And then, oh, goodness—and then—she took us high.
Flying past clouds to the golden place,
our bodies became one. I was mesmerized.

All at once, a deeper meaning to everything
was revealed.
This love was a love I had never known.

Looking at her face, I melted—
beautiful chestnut hair, perfect lips,
breathtaking eyes, a smile from the heavens.

Love discovered me.

I lie still as Essence continues to play.
I swear undying, loyal love
to this incredible woman—
my Goddess.

Forever.
Eternally.