I don’t peddle sunshine.
That’s the first thing you need to know about me.
If you’re here looking for a dose of dopamine,
please exit stage left.
take a seat.
Maybe a dopamine rush is not really what you’re looking for anyway.
Maybe you want to be entertained in some other way.
Some dark horse,
some black night,
some stale bread,
some congealed soup left on the kitchen table for one too many days in a row now.
Maybe that’s the kind of rush you’re after
Maybe that’s the thrill you’re seeking.
Check underneath that coffee pot over on the counter.
I bet you’ll find last weeks coffee grounds still under there.
Don’t open the pantry door unless you want to see yesterdays trash still on the floor.
It fell out when the trash can overflowed and we didn’t bother picking it up.
That makes too much sense, you see.
And we don’t make sense around here.
We’re all the way up in the mess and we don’t bother dusting that dirt of our shoulders like Jay-Z told us to do.
We wear that shit like a mother fucking badge.
We take it with us out into the world when we open the front door and let the sunshine all the way in to every corner of our unmade house.
Our unmade house.
Our unmade beds.
Our unmade lives.
I used a platter from the china cabinet just last night and written in the dust behind it was:
I don’t remember writing it.
How long do you suppose it’s been there?
That’s how long it’s been since I moved dishes around to dust. We only touch up the places people can see.
You used to say that a lot.
Did you ever see?
Did you ever see me?
I saw you.
I saw all kinds of you.
I saw you in every way I could see you.
Did I enter your atmosphere or did you enter mine?
Did I orbit around you or did you orbit around me?
These are questions I ask myself late at night when I crawl into my unmade bed after I’ve forgotten to brush my teeth or apply moisturizer to my tired skin.
These unanswered questions are the chasm between us.
And I see you over there on the other side but I can’t get to you.
The chasm is filling up with water.
And it’s hot. It’s dangerous.
It swirls and swirls
and there are drowning promises in there
and gelatinous blobs of words
back and forth to each other
and they’re so pretty
they’re so dangerous.
We don’t dare take a stick and poke at the beautiful blobs of words because then the blob would just burst and fill this hot swirling water with all the goo that’s holding them so perfectly together.
(All the goo
Is that all the pretty words ever were?)
The water would become so thick then,
like the mucous in my throat and nose
when I cried on that horribly uncomfortable bed
the one our love never got made in
except for that half-hearted attempt
on a Wednesday night
after it all came unraveled.
Forever and ever.
You didn’t know then that unraveled is where I live.
It’s where I exist.
You thought it was in a two story house on Main Street in some small town in Alabama.
That’s just the place I keep my chipped dinner plates and mismatched cutlery. That’s just the building that holds my stained wash rags and plastic food containers who’s lids have all traveled on to places unknown.
That house on Main Street in Alabama is just a shell.