Choices

It is always just a matter of choice. After the implications, and the complications, and the accountability are all stripped ruthlessly away, there remains at the most fundamentally intimate core a lasting, indelible imprint of an initial decision.  Sometimes, choice is born in the sweltering cauldron of a random moment pulled unexpectedly into focus, hitting unpredictably hot and hard on a blindsided turn of fate’s fickle timing.  Or maybe it comes at you in painfully deliberate increments, creeping in slow and invasively targeted with determined precision. Either way, it will inevitably find you.   It does little good hiding inside a bottle- that soothing numbness is at best just a temporary stall.  The solutions that splash and pour into a dirty glass are just cleverly distilled liquid …

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Insomnia

There is a certain stagnation that results from living with the constant burden of unpredictability, caught inexplicably immobile as the first hesitant sparks of an upcoming war that threatens to be anything but civil rain down upon the desiccated tinder of everyone’s day to day good intentions, just waiting for the right mistake to catch and take hold. An accompanying exhaustion, crippling and numb, often robs the restful sleep so desperately needed and replaces it instead with the regret-filled void of decade’s old sin.  It is a wickedly infectious insomnia, red and raw, twirling around a ticking clock whose only remaining function is to lie convincingly about the time. And all I can do is simply lay there in silent subjugation, night after sweat-soaked night, watching …

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Empty Bottles; Broken Promises

  She couldn’t; I always did. But there was never any real choice involved.  There was no enlightened resistance possible when caught in the gravity spiral pull of another night dragged into the swirl of her booze-fueled disconnect. It was always premeditated.  Our paths, and our roles, were predetermined long before we ever began that final heated collapse on a cold Christmas morning, ultimately leading us into just more miscommunication in a chain reaction disaster of conflicting intentions. It was just more indignity shouldered with bending back, watching her kissing the bottom of yet another fucking bottle.  Or several.  Stolen or purchased with sticky change salvaged from underneath wedged cushions- it never really mattered to her. Because to an addict, it always tastes the same. But …

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F**K Human Resources

How do I tell her? How do I explain in a text message that I am inexplicably caught constantly tabulating the incalculable burden of obligation? How do I confess that every single sleepless night my mind unintentionally fills and chokes full with formulaic frustrations, all neatly tallied and categorized into tidy little lists? Every day dawns stubbornly stillborn here in this place no longer fertile with the initial promises of illusive stability.  Life instead gets bogged down and impregnated with a cacophony of humdrum dial tone stagnation. The compulsion to try doing the “right” thing- measured by someone’s unlisted definitions, anyway.  Paying that bill.  And the next one.  And the one after that.  The unceasing drive to do a good job, even though very few people …

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Texting Tag

I have always been overly sensitive about receiving overnight texts, those snippets of conversation hitting my phone randomly in the emptiness of another sleepless night spent straddling the solitary decay in a fading City of Wayne. There was once a time when those texts were almost always transatlantic in nature.  And they almost always contained some form of bad news- another friend buried.  Or arrested.  Or overdosed.  And even when the content of the texts bouncing across an ocean contained happier tidings, there was still an invisible, underlying melancholy attached that taught me caution and stiff-lipped reserve when caught unlocking my phone after midnight. Now, though, here in the tempestuous midst of a pandemic still raging hard… and the western forests burning uncontained… and the progressive …

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