Like a strung out hooker at the end of the day, having sex to get down, not because I want to. I need more time—to allow my subconscious to do its thing, to organize a message, to arrive, in the end, with a differential climax—a meaningful message sent.
Thinking, possibly, to combat the nausea, take the lurasidone after eating about two thirds of my dinner, then adding the final third on top of it, to keep it from interacting with anything directly.
I’ll make it, won’t I, today—hopefully without any sex at all, although I wonder if I’m being realistic. But I think, if I do, again, today, I’ll rely exclusively on my imagination—it seems the best course of action would be to have sex about three or four times a week, and use my imagination, exclusively, at least half, or more than half, the time.
That way I have fodder to fuel my imagination, but, I’m also creating, and receiving, a unique message. I’ll make it, today, reclaiming the best parts of myself, various parts that, in the past, I had to focus on exclusively, at the expense of other parts of myself.
But today, God help me, I’ll arrive, a little anxious, perhaps—but, as an artist, can that really be avoided? Nonetheless, I’ll be part worker and part doer of nothing—nothing but what makes sense, without wasting energy, or forcing something, spending, instead, time by the fire, on my porch, also known as my TV—and treating myself to a modest read—no more than what I’m comfortable with.
This journey has been a rough and tumble
one, forced, up to this point, to depress,
and ignore, His various counsel,
in order to be the self I address,
now, at 48. Part machine, part lazy
duress, part lover of myself and others,
in every possible way. My body
has gone AWOL, along with my doctors,
but I’ll get it, and them, back, in time.
So I wait an extra 60 days,
to speak, do tell, of my various crime,
trying to be what, forever, pays
me no mind—touched, as I am, by fire.
Put the clock away—I can still hear
the one on the wall, structure I require,
part of the time, perhaps not so near,
at this time—and subject, too, to the voice
of the refrigerator, taking over.
High hopes, then, for a graduated choice,
sum of my years and what I uncover,
making His multitude of adjustments,
big, at first, and, at last, zeroing in.
Pay mind to His realistic compliments,
taking myself seriously, needing a win,
and, now, to recognize all of them, my
wins, and to take up my reward. So
the day is young, discomfort will apply,
caffeine entering, and leaving, as I go
from one stanza to the next, anxious.
But it’s my lot, I channel it, I create,
I come up with something glorious,
something that, in time, others will rate,
or would rate, if, that is, we are lucky
enough to find each other. But the fact
that they would, and could, sets me free.
Now, this drive, this fire, what He backed
when He died, for me, and my sins, will be
enough, at the close of the workday, to
see me through—following His untold fee,
this assurance that my heart is true.