Tuesday, April 13, 2010

being used to travel I anticipate it

Forgive the lapse in eloquence here, but men are pigs.

This is not to say they are gluttonous, fornicating mud-lovers. Strictly speaking, I have no beef with pigs as a species. They can be quite endearing. Maybe I just mean this: they have their little pens, their little needs and to hell with the rest of the animal kingdom.

As it stands today, a chilly Tuesday in April, anno domini 2010, I am the untamed fox.

Counting my blessings, I realize my own ripeness. I scrape the slapdash chunks of dried paint from my corroded canvas, and grow increasingly apprehensive about the bareness underneath. What the hell will I do with it? Here I am, a mere germ of a woman, unburdened and unattached, still far enough from 30 to ponder calculated acts of insanity and to be reckless with my own heart.

But this is not without loneliness (plural, multiple, infinite). Lifeboat on an unknown sea, disoriented, no borders in sight. I make these efforts easily and wait only for the hurt to happen.

Non-date mystifies. His absence louder than his presence. My anger is piqued, but my pride bites my tongue.

The G.I.Q. exceeds my endurance. I don't know the 'off' from the 'on,' but I cannot look away. He has the benefit of my full-faced stare, my widest eyes, my vertigo at the edge of the void. I drift in his vacuum. I orbit nothing and no one. Time and mass no longer seem to matter.

So much for opening and upward (and leaf and sap).

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