Wednesday, August 23, 2000

We erected silos of concrete and steel where once stood a tree of forgiveness. The branches we hacked to pieces, chopping the precious wood to bits to feed the flames of our discontent. We wrote bad poetry and called it love. We had kinky sex and called it love. Now we love nothing but the silos dotting the wastelands of our unforgiving souls.

Parched and dry am I like Texas, 53 days without rain. Fifty-three days ago I was led out to the garden behind the house to breathe fresh air and pick ripe berries to heal my soul and bad allergies. My allergies got better.

And we still write bad poetry. :)

Tuesday, August 15, 2000

"Damaged people are dangerous: they know they will survive."

I'm still lost in the dance of the lost man. Everyday my bitterness eats away at my insides, making me more and more mad at the world. Coughing up blood-flecked phlegm at work only confirms the amount of damage I've sustained physically from this summer as do the nosebleeds. Whatever psychological and emotional damage I have, however, remains unearthed and under-excavated like the skeletons of 12th century monks under the cathedral in Lutsk, Ukraine. I wait for proper burial, knowing full well that my only function is as a money-making tourist attraction: "Step right up!" I want to bark at the crowd. The only, albeit ironic, justification for my life is that they'll probably erect some massive church dedicated to my goodness and mercy atop my grave after I'm dead. I'm after all no less a sexual deviant than those monks who, though holy holy in their deaths, still are nothing but bones encrusted in dirt in a cold church basement under where real iniquity is practiced and preached.

My first week back in Texas I heard a report on NPR about how abused people have a different chemical makeup in their brains. Hearing that again made me want to die.