much is the new not

much is the new not

Can you help me with something?

I’m sort of busy.

I really need your help.

Fine, goddammit.

You know, you shouldn’t blaspheme. If I were a believer, I’d have to cut your head off.

Why? You don’t think God can stick up for Himself?
* * *
I don't snap when you interrupt my routine. Much.


I’m in the parking lot. Walking towards my car. There is a bottle of rum hidden underneath the seat.

For some reason, I imagine that you’ll be in the passenger side waiting. I slow down, practicing what I’ll say. All I can think of is, ‘How was your day?’

An SUV honks, reminds me that I’m in the middle of the road. You’re not there, but the liquor is.
* * *
I don't sit around imagining the life we might have lived. Much.


The human body, some indeterminate percentage of water, I read somewhere, but high, definitely high, and it’s no wonder then that memories occasionally float by like jetsam. Oh, I remember you, as I pick up a photo that’s washed upon the shore, the image one of my last year in New York. I knocked a girl over on her bike, mistake, she skinned her knee and that night I kissed her for the first time. I hadn’t thought of you in years.
* * *
I don't live in my head.