Sean doesn’t fall for our parents’ lies, nor does he bother to contradict them. He knows the electric bill hasn’t been paid, the kitchen will never get painted, the claims about finding a new place to live are yarns.
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That was Jesus! I think, grinning. He was in my dream.
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The Fates seemed to turn against me when I hit sixty—or sixty hit me.
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My muses wept. They no longer needed joyful poems, but poetry of tearful chasms into which the corpses of men, including those of the clergy, fell.
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Bitches who can’t be told no. Bitches who are always right. Bitches who need to have the last word. Bitches who wish you’d try them. Bitches who bite motherfuckers’ heads off. Bitches who won’t let anyone touch you. Bitches who’ve given me everything they have.
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However lost or uncertain I get, however washed out by lengthy periods of fitting in, I’ve
been reminded that I am at heart okay—my weirdness is right there in whatever notebook I carry
with me, always tucked away in that blue canvas bag or another.
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This is half to process for myself what I saw today in my newsfeed
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