feeling blah blah
since last sunday. lots of words clumping and clomping, things like fingers spread wide catching nothing, six days of puny and of envy: of jaundiced skies and ropes let go, dance dance dance and don't hold the wall, and long red dresses flying like birds acing the sky.
of course there's admiration too, and lack of confidence, and underlining it all is one holy, one pure icelined resentment of suicidal maniacs.
it's been a week of smut and rime.
so here's this little bitter uplifting, for me. for you. it's a quote from Hunter S. Thompson, the man who lived like bukowski and other beautifully imperfects.
The Edge… There is no honest way to explain it
because the only people
who really know where it
is are the ones who have gone over. The others —
the living — are those who pushed their luck as far
as they felt they
could handle it, and then pulled back,
or slowed down, or did whatever
they had to when it
came time to choose between Now and Later.
