imperfect imperator;

I’ve been away from words.

It’s been weeks. A bit over a month.

And it’s been mutual because the words

have been just as away from me.

I can tell they’ve missed me like the fragile toy

misses the aggressively playful kindergartener.

Housing myself in a playlist of music called

existential rubs

has felt about as “existential” as replacing

the space about an inch in front of my eyes

with rearview mirrors, hoarding a selfish

niche of venues that used to be,

could have been,

couldn’t be.

­

But at least I’ve stopped drinking again; part three

in what’s hoped to be only a three act movement,

the trilogy where the writer decides not to milk

the storied universe for 6,000 more pages

just to eventually take away everything the protagonist

loves before killing [him] off in a way that leaves

every reader disappointed and dissatisfied.

So now it’s been two months of replacing bottles

of whiskey with bottles of water, cans of beer with

cans of, well… water, but sparkling; stubby shot glasses of vodka

(when I really wanted to make the world a blurry islet of self-pity)

substituted by tall cups of Yerba and black teas.

Every meal, logged; intermittent fasting, skipping eats

on Sundays like an exaggerated Mormon; 100 grams of protein,

35 grams of fiber (at least), complex carbohydrates from

plant sources to balance energy availability and keeping A1C

levels from spiking; thermogenesis, avoiding red meat,

pre- and probiotics.

­

Being happy lately has felt like how it must feel to be

an immigrant child playing alone, thousands of miles

from what was once considered home, using the form

of what was familiar as a device for the imagination.

And in all of the new sounds, voices here & there saying

this is new, but this will be okay.

It will be okay.

I’ve been insistent to so many that it will be just that for them.

It’s time to fully digest the notion that living is more than just

painting ice cubes in the time it takes for them to melt

and disappear.