The Old Are Depressing

June 1, 2008

Met with mother today. I never call her mother. Met with her, we talked about flights to the US. I have to find out when I’m supposed to leave the residence hall at New Paltz before I can book mine. I have to apply for Austudy again so I can have, y’know, money while I’m there. I have to book a doctor’s appointment. I have to book an interview at the US consulate. I have to write a poem. I have to finish my poetry exercises. Here’s the fruits of another one:

It starts with sweat
On my calves
Under the covers
And spit pooling
On my pillow
Arrive then
To my woken eye
Your misery strings
Deep black
All directions
Cloud covering
Your coma face
Surface to surface
Between our heads
It is a good morning
               again

This post is boring. What greater theme can I attach to it? It is the end of a weekend, I went to a small, pretty boring party, a great gig, and a slightly bigger, slightly better party. Going out is boring. I get sad if I don’t go out or get invited to go out but when I do go out I am wracked by the thought “This is shiiiiite”. My mother is very old. I hate that we, her kids, are so hapless that she must worry about us as much as she does, as dottery and naive and hard done by she is. Poor poor mother.

Something I’m still no good at is the morning after.

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