Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Around your 30th birthday
you will discover that your body
is not a temple.
It's a den
full of predators.
And you'll be trying
to make friends with them
the rest of your life.
Or, at least, trying to keep
them in a deep sleep
by sneaking quietly around
With Xanax and alcohol.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
One definition of loneliness
is learning that your favorite author,
the one you really understand,
the one you’re sure would’ve really gotten you,
the one that took your stupid happiness and your boring depression
and made you underline it -- even put a star or exclamation point next to it --
killed himself because he decided it wasn’t worth it.
His death turned a great writer into just a dead body in an instant
but was recorded as approximately
between the middle of September and October
because no one called or came over.
He rotted in front of a window for weeks
until a police man found him.