070212 No job, trial coming, divorce, wondering what they’re scheming, cat piss, twitching for a beer, and yet: this is incredible! I have my fish, you know? and all this time, Yeats had the Fisherman!! Also, I didn’t realize Antler was such an interstate hot-shot. I guess it’s pretty special that I got to meet him and hear him read and that Claire was all buddy-buddy with him. Or was she? Was she just buddy-buddy with that Jeff Poniewaz guy? Oh, it all fades so fast. Hey look, Poniewaz was kind of somebody too! And he and I helped Claire move! But yeah. I mean, pretty special aside from how it was already pretty special, I mean. Why do I never realize two things? 1) how special stuff is when I’m experiencing it, and 2) how close I always am to possibly actually being a part of something social and big, and 3) why do I always disappear at the crucial moment without even realizing I’m doing it? I mean, people are out there—have been out there actually DOING poetry. What the fuck happened to me? Why did I laugh myself derisively, protectively out of existence? 070312 God I love whiskey. And hate it. But more love than hate. And William Shatner, too. But there’s virtually no hate there. I keep going around being puzzled by how great I feel. Hypnotized in the throat by listening to my kids play. Vivid extra sharpness, clarity, and saturation in my color vision. Touching that nerve of real. I could list all the stuff that’s fucked up and wrong and scary. But that’s just it: I don’t have to. I know it’s going to be okay. Even though I don’t really know that. This is the philosophical swagger grown up. “I am so much more.” It’s all so— real— “We must be strong and fearless....” Yes, okay, I love music even more than whiskey. But both of them together— fucking unbeatable. 071512. God I want to smoke. The old old old old old boring refrain. 072812 Why aren't you singing? You should be singing. "God bless the flyer... will he be flyin home tonight...."