We, the Democrats, took back both the House and the Senate—so I’m riding high, and happily surprised, as I’d taken a more cynical view of my country, at the present time. It’s 8:46 a.m.; I’m three cups of coffee and two bags of Earl Grey in—brewing, as we speak, chamomile and passionflower tea in advance, in preparation for the transition, from morning to noon—and onward, with the relaxant, until 3:00.
Feeling his anxiety, nonetheless—still forced into sex, when all I want to do is relax, but that’s better than no sex at all, ever—as I lived, for a long time. So, if I had a partner, I’d be able, and, if I had a partner, I’d be potent enough. So I’m happy about that—and I have faith that things, anyhow, will settle down. That it’s not my lot to live like a strung out hooker—unable to get down.
I’m hot—these hot drinks are warming me up, don’t know how I’ll manage when summer rolls around, but we’re headed for winter, now, and I’m looking forward to being cool, all the time. Might not need my heater, like I did last year—maybe my body won’t be so sensitive to the cold—which, because I’m hot, right now, is hard to imagine.
Project his voice, the new voice, scotch uncle,
literary uncle, formerly math
uncle, when math, it seemed, sought my counsel.
Assume this day, this Wednesday, and our path,
from what is dark, to what is light. I’ve been
living, for the past several months, on edge,
trying to be something I’m not, a sin,
I think, against myself, and a wedge,
too, between Him and me, running—
thinking I’m fine when I’m not, or if I
was, that time has passed; it was a fling,
of sorts, with science and math—the sky
looked inviting, and I played a hand.
Not to knock the world view I’ve established—
I’m proud, aren’t I, of the truth I brand,
but, finally, I’m myself again, as I wished,
when, with my back to the wall, I sought
answers that only the morning could bring.
I’m sweating, so I turn to soda, caught
between a rock and a hard place, a King
that loves me, but, for now, is hidden.
Let the tension in my back dissipate,
let the tingling sensation spread, then,
up the back of my head, so I can relate,
to Him, to all, in my skin. I’ll rise, now,
at the crack of dawn—that way, I don’t need
to stay up so late, wondering how,
with food in my stomach, I’ll concede
His effect—awake, and free, of the body.
Let the consummation of an appetite
hold me over for two hours—happy
to turn in, a period that feels right,
satisfied, at the end of my day.
So, I’m not like other people—I
can’t live on a full stomach; the way,
for me, may involve no great high—
now, that is, that I am old, but I live
on the little deaths that I engage,
when, eating light, for the day, I forgive
my nature, and supplement the life I wage
with coffee, tea, and pop, all of which,
I think, are best experienced with no
significant weight in the stomach, a glitch
that would shut me down when I go
towards Him, at the beginning of my day,
and revolve, through pop, round my axis.
I can’t be awake—food makes me pay,
it finishes me off, and leaves me amiss.