I’m a heavy guy
and am decidedly ignorant
to the kind of grace I’ve found
in people like my mother
or the woman I love.

Nausea sets in around nine a.m.
My arms go numb, the bedroom lights
swing over my head, shatter against my stomach
and eventually put themselves back together
to act like it’s only going to get worse.

I become obsessive-compulsive. I become stupid,
full of noise, bad decisions and childhood trauma. I spend her Valentine's Day money
on malt liquor that tastes like fruit punch. I stop writing, I steal good lines
from the deleted scenes of movies that are forever in post-production. Sometimes
I shout until she starts crying. I forget things and then throw a fit when I have to explain them.

I don’t respond well to people
who put their trust in me. They find the strength
to run a hand along my face when I’m taped to the living room
couch, delirious and trying to construct a dream where I’m perfect,
reasonably beautiful and capable of making her stay.

There’s a lot of bad weather in this town.
Snow just doesn’t figure into January or February.
It’s either too cold, or there’s just too much rain
burning and melting the cars that cover the street
like bedlam row players and keep me safe.

All those locks on both sides of my front door,
don’t stand a bloody chance
or even a clean one in a hell of good intentions.

My heart usually deserves to keep going.
It’s just that I lack patience, stunning dignity
and a cool singing voice. There’s more of that grace
to consider, too. I also wouldn’t mind
being able to make her feel important again.

I can forgive myself for almost everything,
for not being able to stand on a chair and balance
myself on one foot while sliding back and forth
along the roof during a hurricane.

Getting her to smile so easily
that I could swear she was asleep
is a whole other collection of promises I intend to pursue.

Getting this novel done makes me wish
the invention of television was twenty years away.

Getting my act together is going to take
a lot of short stories and a lot of strong music.

I’m just grateful someone is here
to pull me out of the ground chest first.

Even the best research points to knowing
that I’m going to need her for seventy years
ifI’m ever going to be sincerely happy.

She knows this. She still loves me.
Liking me is the problem.

I need to work on that, too,
even if it means cutting into my writing time
and letting her pick more movies.

02/24/2010

Posted on 02/24/2010
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