Sunday morning coming down

Now I’m afraid of what Facebook might think. I’m self-censoring again, and I’ve started to drink. Or at least tend bar, I might as well, if I’m stuck here in the clink. I’ve got advice for every alcoholic, for the shiftless syphilitics, I’ve got the right diet for chubzos and the proper punctuation for the it's-greek-to-me acidics.

And yes - today I confessed, and that’s my confession, nothing left for this blog, I’ve lost touch with discretion.

I have so many projects on the go, if I stopped and focused then I’d have to go slow. And Mr. Peculiar is a no show? Oh no. Ergo, speed it up, pretend like you’re loco.

I miss everybody. Yeah though I see em each day. But we were special once and hard to pin down and I was lucky when you asked what am I doing on Friday. Now nothing’s a surprise, when I watch your every move, I’ve lost my drive to comprehend, analyze, pore through. Soon we’ll both die and the program will end, and you’ll finally feel loss electricity can’t mend. But suddenly suddenly that’s how fast it will end. Abruptness is the only crime, we adapt to Vesuvius if you give us enough time (and a decent pair of shoes).

Blues pour down, it always comes to this, Mystery mystery that’s what we’ll miss. The Borg is invasive and crisp and well-meaning me I’m spree-spending and hiding out by the cliffs. There’s a happy mob gathering blunt clubs, I’ve danced in disco clubs forty nights and worn down to the nubs. We all see now that we breathe the same air, misery loves company yes, but familiarity breeds contempt, and we’re simultaneously turbocharged and spent, equally miserable and ecstatic and so I'm borrowed for Lent.

I’m a man of few words, really I am, and this is the truth, in what I don’t say, so what kind of writer am I anyway.

Everyone has that nagging suspicion: Am I a hack? It’s an act of contrition. There is no easy out, no eraser of doubt and I’ve embraced this fact and that’s precisely what keeps bringing me back.