Last dawn of a long weekend. In a wondrous fog. At the back end of a bottle. Drinking the Hair of the Dog. Let’s reminisce about that time I was high on the hog. Over the unbearable lightness of a being. A pawg.

"Ugh" I reek I think. As I reach for

Tequila the Terrible. My morning after bitter pill. For me nothings quite comparable. But when my headache goes away, it will prove once again. The nightly desecration of my body is seemingly repairable.

"Ugh" Here we go again. Waking up hung over, in a strangers abode. And unfortunately for her, despite all the kissing and cunnilingus we did last night. I remain an uncomely toad.

"Ugh" My heads pounding. And where the fuck did I put my clothes? I needed these to hit the road. "Uh-oh" A wave of nausea comes over me. And I’m sent running for the commode. Where I subsequently shit splattered the back of the bowl. To my surprise even after hearing all that. She still demanded.

"Get your ass back in here and give me one for the road"

The last meager load. Of a toad that’s been rode hard. And probably sub-par at best. Out of breath just taking a shit. I needed rest!

I apologize in advance. I’m not proud of what I did next. And there’s no way to sugar coat it for you. Like I had her breasts.

The paint was beginning to peel on the bathroom walls. So was her make-up as I recall. And I can’t remember ever having worse smelling balls.

Reached for TP and my hand free falls. No sweat. I was prepared for such a basic pitfall. Washed my hands with soap and light a match. Good call. Dressed freshened my breath. And checked to see if I had all my things. Before reminding her she was out of TP. As I passed her bedroom running down the hall.

"Your out of TP babe. Don’t sweat it I used one of your towels. Go back to bed night owl. No harm no foul. I’ll call"

"Wait what? Get back here. You son of a bitch"

Already beginning to feel better. As I’d followed the alcoholics handbook to the letter. I was gone in a flash. But could still vaguely hear her cursing my name. When I’d halted my mad dash before tripping and coming up lame. Feeling I’d put a safe distance between me and that damn dame. I try to remember her name. Wearing a cynical grin. As I recall everyone of our so called (forgivable?) sins. Trying to convince myself I’ll find time to call.

Hiking after dusk

Something rustling in the leaves

I see something there

Pale flesh on moonlight

The smell of freshly turned soil

Too dark to be sure

I already know

But have to be positive

Steel myself to go

My legs are steadfast

Stomach turning, palms sweating

Eyes don't want to look

A thin band of gold

Rising from beneath the earth

A young woman's hand

Hastily hidden

In this sorry shallow grave

Where is her killer

What was it I'd heard

Rustling through these thirsty leaves

Something behind me

Jenny lived in a world of pain.

No medicine, no meditation could fix her brain.

Ms. Atlas carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.

She struggled and screamed until the world finally broke her.

Her wounds were never addressed or healed because they were never seen, all internal.

So on the hottest summer day in Minnesota, Jenny decided that her life was over.

And when Fisher’s pond stole her last breath, she finally found her rest.

You see, Jenny opened up another portal,

and found the answer, life immortal.

People are scared of the unknown.

They fear what they do not understand and what they cannot control.

A problem is that control,

itself,

doesn’t really exist,

but rather,

is a construct,

of our minds.

Can we not,

therefore,

choose what we are,

and are not,

afriad of?

(do we?)

Would we choose

to be

fearless?

Does fearless mean

safe?

Might it mean

unaware?

How do we make the ends meet,

of fear and control,

of power and responsibility,

of responsibility and anxiety,

of comfort and pleasure,

of object,

and subject.