Bridging twelve months together, a ravage shuffle, a deck of rapture.

So mangy, last year’s memory portrait driven into the wall, leaving that minuscule gap where the frame almost meets the beam so that the hammer’s end can remove the nail if the memories dangle too ghastly.

A hollow recap of some old writing: my yo-yo girl with the broken hinge; her spring cleaning, there on the kitchen floor, scrubbing the grime from her life; a lamppost near Harrods; always the weekday couch but never the weekend comfort; sunlight overalls, one shoulder off cleverly; like the chimneys outside blew love instead of smoke; rainrise instead of rainfall.

I wrote them all.


So I lied a few times. I did. Said I cared when I didn’t. Said I’d make the change when I wouldn’t. Let a certain goodbye linger too long, held on to those brunette locks even though they fell for someone else, her makeup dried but my emotions ran, black and streaked, falling asleep on the bathroom floor, never a good look. I held the clippers but couldn’t make the cut. What a shame. What a sham.

Recounting sullied bed sheets, surprised to see girls still there in the morning,  the damp pillow cases drunk with sweat, whiskey and remorse; and that corner for the contraceptives; and that corner for the crumpled journal entries; and that corner for all the shit that piled up in Los Angeles.

To the new year then.

Lost never the word for January.

Making moves toward the bedroom, our physical talk coming out in moans. Releasing the pressure by undressing her in the night. Scratches leaving blood trails on my back, my neck. Putting a cork on bottled burnouts. Stocking the shelf with new labels.

So many months ahead, never drifting into the past because there’s only shadows there. Potential in phone calls. Potential in lingering fragrances. Trepidation, like a toe dipped in icy pool water, never the right move. Fireworks, no duds, jumping right in, that’s the only way. Yes.

Pulling on these new year britches, no belt, of course not, only a limitation. Let them fall, sure, to the floor, to my ankles, bring them back up in the spring, throw them in the wash when summer and a girl make them impossibly grainy, let autumn and the wind dry them out until winter hits and the trash bin comes to call.

Recycle all the years. What I do best, inconceivably romantic they way the years liquify into a pallet a painter could enjoy, into an alphabet a writer could enjoy, just enough color to make them real, just enough ink to compose a worthy sentence that speaks novels.

Yes. What a word. Just say yes, like that makes all the difference, say yes to god damn everything, unless the yes brings a hurt, then say no, but start the year off with a yes, see if the yes is still there at the end of the year, and if it is, a victory, yes, a good year, yes, a bowl of yeses instead of a bowl of coins, yeses worth more, valuable in the dead of night when all the banks are closed, yes, save the yeses and never give them to a cash register, certainly don’t hang them on pink dresses because pink is so drab, so flippant, yes, yes, yes…


3 thoughts on “The Old Year

    • Thank you! A bit confusing, this blog, but I had fun writing it and jumping from place to place. I feel like that’s what writing should be like at times…just all over the place. Thanks for reading!

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