24. Fuck My Body, Ok?

Do not look at these photographs of women

photoshopped into grotesque designs, nor

Kirstie Alley in a bikini, the girl’s put on weight.

Note that Breaking Bad ended last night, not

badly. Consider fostering or adopting a dog.

Note that the government shuts down tonight.

Win three 60ml tubes of your favorite Charvin oil

or acrylic in your favorite colors. Share this post

to win. We don’t endorse any of this crap. Take

your chances. What’s happening with you, David?

You’re alone, we see, your daughter gone and

Caroline away and not calling you. Perhaps she doesn’t

care anymore? And we see new books on your table,

more Zen. You’re getting into it. We noticed

this morning that your Zazen began with ten minutes

of sobbing. Want to tell us about that?

Twenty people like your tears, how you can let go.

Fuck my body, ok? David chokes through his sobs.

Fuck it, fuck it. And while we’re at it, fuck the rain too,

which has been blowing for days now, flooding the streets,

upending trees. It’s like his inner weather, out of control.

Blood-clot BBs firing from his urethra on the weekend.

But over his shoulder there is sunlight, and he thinks

for a moment he’s John Denver, getting high.

Poor John dying like Icarus in an ultralight. Forty years ago

David went to a nightclub in Georgetown, the Cellar Door,

to listen to Fat City and Denver and recognized one of the singers

as a girl he’d had a crush on in Junior High. He remembered

sitting beside her in the gym and the long arc of her thigh

as she stood and walked away. They never spoke. It was a perfect

thigh, tight muscles flexing. So, yeah, fuck this body. As if

anyone would. The sun’s gone back behind the rain clouds.

Here comes the wind. It feels like a long hard birth.

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