10.20.17

 

Solitude should be
quantified and labeled
like a bloodtype.

That’s
what I believe
in moments like this
when reason skitters
away like a cockroach.
In my hand
this martini
flavored with pearl onions
and pickled Brussels sprouts,
which are called
frog balls,
and I wonder.
The flames inform
my thinking.
And the contents
of this drink bring on
a certain kind of numbness.
Everything is fine. Like the
plunge over a cliffside. Close
your eyes and brace for
the landing.
You are the cure,
you must be.

 

 

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Written at 12:07 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.