Crowded and Cold

Sometimes it's too black to drink. Like when the sifting becomes too heavy or the waves lap over pictures of those who become themselves in the receding water. Who said it: That when you start to think you stop writing? Pushkin said that; or Tolstoy. No, Gramps said that in a moment of lucidity. But maybe he was just plagiarizing. I plagiarize too, you know.

It's those kids. Those two beautiful kids. I could have wept right there. But it's my cynicism - it's why I don't weep; I should. And those kids, brother and sister. They're caught in this Brazil'ian system, knowing the waiting, the patience it takes to be digested. They've seen it: Fights, foster care, bringing little cousin milk because his mama doesn't keep any in the house. And they'll make it somewhere, maybe with each other. Maybe not. But what if they were from somewhere else? Somewhere where you're smart and you're beautiful but you're not damaged.

When god is out of the picture, everything is permissible.

Sometimes it's too cold to think. And sometimes it's too hard to wait.

And sometimes, Selfish is the only way to be.

Sometimes you write to make yourself feel. And sometimes you write because you feel. But mostly, comfort is the hardest fitted skin.