flying buttress

I am the hole in the donut...

Insides shriveling under this hulking blanket of mundane and khaki pants.
Is no one suffering?

flying buttress on Notre Dame Cathedral

Screaming in love anymore?
Have we all been sedated by quinoa salad and gym memberships at 4x's per week?
Has our passion been stripped monthly in $100 increments on automatic bill pay?
What will be left of me?
No more alcoholism.
No more gritty sex in tiny sedans under musty blankets and Mazzy's Star.
No more starvation and guts sinking in and around powerful ribs like a cathedral's flying buttress.
No more purging all food, all love, all failure and all bile to digest. to care.

No more free fall into shimmering pool of love to drown all worlds.

a 700 foot sink hole for which we dangle roots for miles to only taste.
No more breaking dishes when the fever can find no outlet.
No more whiskey burning and knowing it'll all be over soon
no more singing, wailing like dead cats deep into the night
...songs to say what we can no longer annunciate.
no more.

You may rage no more. wings are clipped.  food rationed.
all you have is
poetry.
and paint.
and fingers to climb and feel fear from 100 feet upon granite with the tiny swift birds, gliding.
the occassional sex that is only a misting of lips...my roots skimming.
but knowing we could go so much deeper if we didn't have to get back to it.

only me.
worrying.
flattened.
mourning.

Painting the deck where the paint has rubbed off.  listening to Red House Painters on my ipod.
ironic.
and crying...the inaudible cries of a housewife before her kids wake up.
                                   
a deep inhale brings the scent of cigarette smoke on hair from another time.
hair stuffed against a pillow I don't remember lying down upon.
and the wet spots where tears laid with me all night.
It brings the stomach lurch
the realization - I have to wait an entire day with all her hideous sunlight.

It was not better.
    It was not better.
        It was not........better.