about where there is hope there is life,
and at the time I didn't give a fuck about it,
but now, a week later, I find myself waking up to his words.
Terrence reminds me of my friend Kyle who
died in a motorcycle accident in Florida a few years ago;
he is strong, quiet, yet laughs with his soul,
and he doesn't bullshit anybody, that is why his words linger.
my phone vibrates on the sink as I brush my teeth and think.
why do I get paranoid every time my phone shakes?
it's a weird tick, I guess, leftover from years of lying
and getting mixed up with gangsters and girls who are crazy.
it's just Terrence, probably still up from the night before,
doing blow and chasing skirts in Brooklyn or Portland.
he calls me when he is scared, says I am the only one who gets it.
I am, and Kelly does the same thing when she is wasted.
sorry, Terrence, I say to no one. I got a lot of work this morning.
can't get wrapped up in your tales of debauchery no matter
how much I love them, no matter how much I miss being a character in them.
I must command the fantasy of a forgotten life via poems like this.
plus, I have a meeting at noon with some business woman
who wants me to write her boring ass blog about lawyers,
and then I have to get ready for the reading in Houston,
which is tomorrow night, and I don't know what I am going to read or say to these kids.