Trying not to kill oneself is like jogging.
You have to keep at it, day in and day out.
Tackling a mid-thirties slump with the bravado
of an insomniac, morning light poured like a double
into an empty whiskey glass. Fell asleep only to recordings
of Werner Herzog’s voice. The sweet evaporation
of moon-blue pills. Otherwise, felt nervous as birdsong.
Some words got loose inside, chattering,
blew themselves into a twister. A novel is not a means
to escape, but a means to escalation. Crying
outside a gourmet slice joint while eating.
Why stop? Fourteen dollars to last beyond
rent day and all the credit cards wasted as poets.
Called Mom for help from a pay phone, big as God,
but hung up. Promised to take better care of myself
while drinking. In the parched mornings, laced up shoes.
Ran across impossibly green grass—uncut,
its whisper like old film in a machine, reminiscent
of the sawdust-scented darkness of classrooms
full of flickered waiting. These once-tiny hands
lay folded, eyes wide, the colours stuttering.