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werewolf
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shall about not shall about,
kings and angels,
an old map of the world, herr doctor, head doctor, the great frontier,
as if any other frontier was actually and other frontier…
making proclamations of life or death in your den on a Tuesday,
though it should be a Sunday.
it involves those who could get there largely despite you, animals, wild-eyed, those who don’t know why they shouldn’t be wild-eyed, children,
a client asked you a question as a colleague...
you’re told about it by other doctors,
the devastated teenager, the widow leaving church and coming
into such stupid light,
devoid of the frozen faces and forms of comfort,
the question asked in anguish is never how, but why. just like in the movies and the books, and just like that,
the answer is pan to sky…
you look out the window often, examine your fingernails, as they name menaces, as if you can really be on their side, when they aren’t illusions at all,
sarah, or the finance report, or -
all real.
low-self esteem just shows you’re perceptive you note and say our time is done.
would it really be so hard, to place down the emptied bottles
your pills and society's pills,
booze and meds
with the fastidious sense of closure of the notebook at the end of the session,
and say our time here is done,
nothing solved, but neither nothing complicated.
isn’t the solution always someone else’s.
you’ve been talking about it all your life, say something.
a colleague's memo -
every picture of a killer I’ve seen, they have that slight smirk. and saints, the pained expression on the faces of saints, I can’t understand it.
how could you ever tell another person whether they should live you ask yourself (drinking because you know it’s an addiction).
you wouldn’t dare tell the other in yourself to live or die, that hinging hunger in your stomach,
the cologne and collar straighten between your legs, no matter how often your mind comes to the conclusion - not for me, not for me,
write it up,
you still come to bed, to your wife and the whiter hair safely not
a deviation, and perhaps
a giggle or some deference,
not at all unusual for any given night,
and you are like a desk drawer closing, strange scrawls just eclipsed in your eyes by the smooth veneer of performance, memory a reoccurring state, slight differences to be encouraged or, and you enter the bell curve at a point, you know where the mean lies, familiar comfort, the text on the page,
and you hold her head away from yours as she cums
like one might comfort a child,
because it's all up for grabs.
the question is never
what is she really thinking about,
but what am I really thinking about.
tomorrow, more foregone conclusions returned to, as if your life earned them, rather than depended on them, built buildings of, great concrete and sterile tombs hiding the stuttering which typed them into blueprints, the hand still held, at the drawer,
at the presence of another you’ve yet to entirely give up on
or release,
as if the two are any different.
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040928
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