This piece is about February and it’s called,

“this piece is a god-damn celebration”. 
 

It’s the worst month (February)

and my bodies changed (bad)

body BAD!   like a dog

I lick the jar limpid.

chafed from being too lazy to grab the lube

this brain may be best served as a delicacy.  $45.00

and free from these desire paths

furrowed by my feet falling on familiar ground  

and fear,  

massing armor for my walk home

daisies on the road to death   Did you know

that you burn 30-60 thought calories each day? 

But that’s not including stress

because of cortisol

fuck cortisol, I’d drop 10 pounds

I’m dis - eased on a quest for perfection

anything 

like better skin or  (the even more magical)

everyday BM     But wait;
 

Am I lame for going through an existential phase in my early

30's?   Like, how can this even be a phase if the nature of living is

“relating to existence…?”  Am I not special?  Why?  Like how is it

possible that everything and nothing can matter at the same time? 

How can I be so confused yet so content, simultaneously? 

Emotional edging (a practice of awareness, un-erotic but fierce.)   As

my good friend’s Kirsten and Charlie would say, “Why is blue?” 

And I’d say, “Who cares, have you seen the sky?”  Because I did

today and Dear Love, I’m cracked the fuck open!  In that certain

kind of way, a way where it’s February and my raw flesh is

exposed to the cold air and salt but that sun.  THAT SUN!  And  

I’m in love and it makes me want to cry (which is my dads fault,

its chemical, low T) but whatever.  I’ve been sliced open and

stuffed with an immense amount of appreciation (a blessing) and

hope (a goddamn miracle.)  WOOOWWWWWWW!  And I’ll

scream and I‘ll smile and I’ll eat cereal for dinner and not give a

shit if it’s balanced because today I am.  I’ll bike 10 miles to see my

friend, sober.  Ill scream when George Harrison comes into my

ears and sing in my own shitty voice, “If not for you!” Ill speak my

truth and know what I’m saying is only that and can be helpful.

I’ll label nostalgia a bitch (despite P.C.) and carry on, seeing its

dire beauty.  And yesssssss, I’ll bake salmon that will make her

dance and I like her so that’s enough for me, especially when it’s

February.