When someone dies in West Virginia, the custom is to hold a wake in your house. Bootleggers and moonshiners suffice for priests on religious occasions. I’m holding a kind of ceremony of my own, because I’ve got a heart full of hurt and boot full of blinding corn whiskey. When I’m inside of liquor and smoke, I get heavy. When I get heavy, it’s easy to sink into the soil—to be so low that I have to look up to see graves.
Starbucks this morning. I drink my coffee black as the shit underneath the coal miner’s fingernails. I wanted to order a venti iced caramel macchiato with an extra shot and whole milk—white as the coal miner’s daughter. You see, I sought my coffee on the outside today so I wouldn’t have to face my reflection in the coffeemaker. I don’t know how to brew coffee for one anymore. Let me say that again: I don’t know how to brew coffee for me anymore.
Dear blank page, I hate myself again.
I feel like a murderer in hiding. That was too much, I apologize. I’m prone to hyperbole. I feel like a batterer. I hulk over Beth, she’s only 5’4”. I stood over her and I broke some promises. I left her with everything I came with.
No one tells you about the guilt or the uncaring midday sun. The sun feels no guilt.
I am not the sun. I do not shine every day.
I think, in New Orleans, I’ll buy a greyhound and name him after a horse. Shadowfax, Trigger, Silver.
Heros have horses with good names. For the first time in my life, I’ve gotten tired of wanting to be a hero. The tights are strangling and the cape is heavy.
What is always overlooked is the simple fact that Superman has no need for Lois Lane. If a chain-smoking journalist falls from a window and no alien is there to catch her, does she make a sound?
Lois Lane thinks that all she needs to do is fall.
Everything I just said proves I’m no hero. Anti-Hero maybe, the reluctant white knight crushed under the weight of his own immense greatness—playing the role of victimized martyr.
She only cooked for others, never for me. And Mary Jane never washes or irons the Spidey Suit.
I said that to say this; are footrubs so different from blowjobs? Let me be clear: In a hostage situation, no. In West Virginia, only to confederate-sympathizers. Regarding internet porn, one rarely leads to the other. In a relationship, yes. Only one can be demanded and only one can be denied.
I don’t know what to do when I brew more coffee than I want. My instinct is to want more or to brew less but I don’t know how. I empty the coffeepot into the sink and wonder what all that arabica does to the gators in the sewer. I feel like I spend a lot of my time feeding stimulants to monsters.
She made me think that I don’t have to hate myself. I’ve come to realize that I might need to.
I may not know about alligators in suburban shit rivers but I do know that lions only hunt when they’re hungry.
You see, I had to leave her so that I could starve again. This is the first thing I’ve written in months and I wrote it in green ink.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about her elbows. I have no idea what they’re like.
The sun doesn’t give a damn about me.
I’ve been drinking so much the bottle looks like a weapon. The liquor holds me because I’m not man enough to hold my sober.
To hunt, I have to be starving.
—Image of a beautiful young woman falling through the sky courtesy of Shutterstock