early night, we set fire to the christmas tree and my hands are swollen. i can't remember what time it happened but lightfoot put me to sleep on the couch as the fire crackled on. i know when i woke up there was dough in the kitchen and goulash in my mouth. as far as feeling goes i'm no where further now than i was last year at this time and still pondering if i could get my skull through the gyprock. all the heartache and headache aside, there are paintings on my floor from the 5 year hunger and i miss the ones whom i love, and myself. maybe the only true happiness will come from standing on the side of the road in ontario, or playing cribbage on a picnic table beside the great lakes. makes me want to eat rotten cabbage and let the dog lick my face. someone inside of me still lives in the eastern townships and is in love with the photographer, but for every reason at all i am laying awake at 5 am on the western tip of culture thinking about the women who have signed a lease in my brain and moved out before finding a sublet. nobody is happy and who is making love? i mean not just fucking..
i'm in love with you, you know it, i know it and the cat seems to not give a shit, but he rubs his back against my calves and i wonder why, maybe he to, sees an easy target.
just wanted to add, kerouac may have had his day with handsomeness, and off beat "poetry" but he was a dick and died with a bottle in his hand, why? tell yourself why, you know, it's modern art. unhappiness, no, its not that, but the state of everything, i'm fine you know, everything is fine, think about yourself.
a poem for wednesday. god save us.