2018: De rien à rien

2018, you’ve done a number on me.

I cannot write about you in prose,

I am too tired for that.

. . .

A year of published books,

Revolts and repulsing looks.

Of High Visibility

& Low Sales.

. . .

2018, you weren’t so mean,

If I take all the years I’ve had and create a mean.

In aggregate, I glean something closer to serene.

Stable Housing

& Food.

No Prison.

. . .

Hygiene.

Caffeine.

Censured Nicotine.

No Canteens.

Ruts becoming routine.

. . .

Benzene poised nightmares of my mother,

Obsessive, restless, pointless hands directly confronting each day.

One after another.

Super Ego is a big Ideal.

Libertine!

Philistine!

Quarantine!

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

[…]

Yourself.

My mother always says.

Reply: Guillotine.

. . .

Yes, the bitter fight continued with this harlot come Magdalen,

And despite using all my:

brain, intelligence, intellect, intellectual capabilities, mental capacity, brains, brainpower, wits, wit, powers of reasoning, powers of comprehension, powers of thought, understanding, reasoning, judgement, sense, mentality, perception;

I am still left with a hole in the back of my head.

Where she and They pulled the trigger one day, when I was seventeen.

Boy, T’aint easy being a Grants Pass queen.

. . .

[[[[[[Transition to some sort of a tenuous, open finality:]]]]]

E D I T                       E R  R O R [[[[OK, proceed, aGAIN]]]]

2018 has been a year to overspend, pretend and even mend.

I have managed to blend some saccharine into the oft-dire night-dreams.

And even create a chimera of a magazine.

It’s all unseen.

And that’s where I am going.

Low Visibility,

High Sails.

. . .

16holt_1
Nancy Holt’s Sun Tunnels, Great Basin Desert, Utah, USA / Courtesy: The Boston Globe “Holt’s Vision Aligned With Sun, Earth” by Cate McQuaid

. . .

Stark relief from 2017 and 2016 and 2015 and 2014.

Thank you, 2018.

Perhaps you didn’t do a number on me, it was those other 2000 teens! (How cruel they’ve been, save you, 18, my friend.)

Loving myself, is a matter of programming  unforeseen subroutines,

and ending that beginning to begin a new ending.

Of examining codes, matrices,

Of maddening love,

Of haste,

Of sunsets,

Of the Anthropocene.

. . .

Dear Zeus,

I am trying to be good for nothing.

De rien à rien

 From nothing to nothing.

that’s book II.

Wait for it,

come 2019.

. . .

 

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