42 years old

roughly half a million words floating

around out there published

not too many, but too few, I think

there should be more

there should be millions

but tonight there could be anything

a long walk, a drunk drive

or sitting here at the table watching my dog

or there could be suicide

and that’s no bullshit

the idea of it has never been about guts for me

or about what I would miss

what I haven’t seen or done

none of it plays a factor

I haven’t played my last card yet

but it’s coming

not to fucking reach out or

whine or

be weak or

give up or give in

suicide has always seemed

like a good out to me

but my dog, the typewriter, the laptop,

the sun-torn highways

are enough to keep my flesh

above earth

until they go at once

I keep writing

I keep burning toward

something

there.

 

—from Gutted Rose & Other Stories, coming soon…