\ There is no such thing as moonlight

I always imagined that if I could untwist the words in my head at the exact moment they were needed I could come across as a goddamned poet, but the thoughts at the time always seem to float to the surface of the stagnant water like ambergris, leaving me no choice but perseveration til I can get home, process the gray clumps to be used as fixatives for perfumatory recollections, various details simultaneously filled in and left out, depending on how I want to relive the memory. Mostly, I just want to relive it.

My conflict is usually trying to decide whether I’m more sorrowful for the words I said or the words I didn’t; in their raw form I imagine my luck runs the way of the horoscope hacks that augur our destinies in the reflections of the moonlight, which is telling because the moonlight is in fact the sunlight. Moonlight doesn’t exist, and all the poems and sonatas need redaction.

Acclimatization must be the evolutionary trait that keeps our race running, because I am sitting here buzzing, not willing to lift a finger for anything other than to draw soul patches on the side, lift it to my bottom lip and wonder aloud what kind of cruel, unkissed bureaucrat came up with the idea to close a park at the exact time it should remain open.

Today, I feel like a giant among wine.