I am drunk and I am happy and I am in love. Most of my writing should be this easy breathing. It should wet your lips as you say the words. It should remind you that I want to wet your lips.
But I get undrunk much of the time. I am not easy. Grief moves into wrinkles. An entire battalion of sadness rests in my armpit. I hear of fat artillery moving into my heart, the creaking of missing missiles perched on the valves.
I am a mess. There is so much to do. Tonight, I am reminded of this forever foray: my boss is telling me to come back to do much more, that I am away from the future, that I am still in the stuck, old system learning nothing, that it is important to be a physician, sure, but there is so much done that they do not do, that I can do, that I was doing. I drink more. I spill more. I am messier still.
I agree with him. Yes yes. There is much to do, I tell him. The drink is stiff and I am not. “I want to see the pyramids with her and lay in tall grass in Peru with her and I want to hold her hand in an art gallery where the pictures do not make any sense and I am convinced that there is no good art left and then I look at her again, her with the geography of love, her with the twirling of a dress or a skirt or jeans, her who pulls the world in her spin, and I am convinced that there is much to do, to become, to realize with her, the Art.”
He says what the fuck.
I say the same. I apologize that I am drunk. I am happy. I am in love.
In luscious longing,