The Dark Bottomless Boob on Your Face

The worst of it is the dark bottomless.

I cannot paint a portrait of us to hang over my mantel.

I don’t know what we looked like. I don’t have the skills.

Not one single picture exists… of us together.

I have one picture of you. Your eyes are closed. You are almost smiling.  

I have this urge to piece together a collage of us.

Step back… see….around the shards…between the lines…behind the scenes.

To slow down the sleight of hand… to see how the bunny gets in the top hat.

We are mixed media.

We are found object.

We are abstract.

And perhaps….

If I could find meaning in the giant boob on your forehead…

If I could accept my lack of arms as reasonable or at least artful…

I might be able to sleep. I might be able to turn around and start climbing out.

My problems are small and daily. Or large and lifetime. Or that's the same thing.

Someone linked me to my own blog. Can you imagine? It's difficult to read my words now. I find myself alternately hilarious and piteous.

I'm sitting in a small town bar using the wifi. The locals inquire about the laptop as though it is a spaceship. I answer their questions as though it is a spaceship I happened upon and just decided to dink around with.

"God knows what this darn thing is... thought I'd just tinker it a bit for the mild amusement of tapping keys"

I also work here just often enough that it pays to blend in as much as I can.

This isn't working the way I'd hoped... the way I remembered. Nothing works anymore and I don't know how to get back. I followed something out to the edge and fell over the side and I'm not sure I even want to pull myself back up.

and none of it is very interesting. Just poverty and alone and barely getting by.