words exposed during a defiant last night

When you are creating a table of contents for a manuscript with many pieces, be sure you locate the longest title before you begin tabbing over for the page numbers, lest you repeat the tabbing mechanism like dumb again and again and again until everything is in line. Carpal tunnel, you know. Damn poems. Damn sick babies.

I’m going to go ahead, be narcissistic and quote my own poem: What, again, are we in training for? I don’t fucking know sometimes (frequently). Sometimes things seem heavy and then they lighten up like whipped cream. A little pumpkin pie with adornment and the air is different and easier to deal with.

Am I moody, or merely human?

Just because doctors have special degrees doesn’t mean they can talk down to people without those particular special degrees. Just because they wear fancy clothes doesn’t change anything. No, this is not personal. Yes it is.

I hate money.

I never use the term hate carelessly. I rarely use the term hate.

I disregard money. Or I try my darnedest to.

In some countries people still use stones as currency, the islanders of the Micronesian state of Yap, for example.

Call me a baby, but I don’t want to go to sleep just because I have to get up way too early to go to work tomorrow. Oh, what a big-baby feature of Generation Extreme. When I have pull, when I have shot many a clay pigeon, I will write a book on Generation Extreme.

Marianne Moore made me wonder once. Hero. Who are my heroes? I keep it personal for the most part. My mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, Kristin Hersh.

(Note: Kristin Hersh is the only hero mentioned who is not a family member. Some day I hope to achieve the sublimity, the raw and true, that she achieves in her music, in my living. Would that then make me my own hero? Is that possible? Is that foul? What a brick conundrum.)

Sometimes I want to be thoroughly connected to other people; sometimes I want no connection at all. Give me hermit or give me death. On the other hand, live free or die. Yay, New Hampshire.

Politics is a disgusting influence and guide. Cleanse me.

I don’t want my heroes to grow old and incapable. I don’t want to grow old and incapable.

I look forward to growing old. What would the sun say to all of this if it could speak? It would sound like Barry White with a little wine in him. Or like a Sara under the influence of Barry White who is under the influence of a little wine.

Please, when I put out my single, "Can’t Get Enough Of Your Love, Babe," buy it. Please, please, please, please.

No, I’m not on crack. Just pensive. And terribly flattered that Samuel Taylor Coleridge thought to write a poem about me long before I was born. I still don’t want to go to sleep (which means I may feel like shit tomorrow—so it goes, Mr Vonnegut).

p.s. I’m glad I don’t smoke anymore. I don’t like smelling like cigarette smoke.