your weight in gold.

It’s December.
The days are getting noticeably shorter.
The sun is waning.
I can feel my seasonal starting to kick in.
The end is near.
But, we are prepared for the approaching dark ages.
We know this ritual all too well.
All the windowsills
Are slowly being filled
With flickering candles.
Electric ribbons—
Kaleidoscopic cobwebs
Bleed from the bare wooden wrists
Of the sleeping trees.
We turn on every light in the house,
Even the chandeliers and closet lights,
And break out the natural, full spectrum bulbs.
Everything is illuminated.
There’s really not much else we can do at this point
But bundle, nurse ourselves with bottles of whisky,
Grab our shovels
And prepare
To bravely and gallantly dig ourselves
Out of winter.

I think I successfully avoided the swine flu.
Conversely, I think I’ve earned my health.
I’ve spent years unintentionally exposing myself to illness,
Trading germs with lovers and strangers alike,
Culminating an impenetrable immune system of steel.
I will miss the codeine though.
Maybe I’ll fake tonsillitis.

There was a brilliant blue ring around the moon last night.
It was beautiful, but eerie as fuck:
Sailors believed it signifies bad weather.
Old wives' tales claimed it is a sign of bad luck.
I’m convinced it was a marker of the apocalypse.
The scientists, however, chalk it up to the refraction of moonlight
Shining through ice crystals suspended in the clouds.
But I hate being disillusioned
And resolved that I’d rather not know the truth:
"You may tear apart the baby's rattle
And see what makes the noise inside,
But there is a veil covering the unseen world
Which not the strongest man,
Nor even the united strength
Of all the strongest men that ever lived,
Could tear apart"
- Francis Pharcellus Church “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus”
Needless to say, it rained all day.


And when it rains, it pours.





(I should build a raft.
And I’ll attach little paper boats
To the back of it
And sail to the gas station.
Because lord knows how I’m
Always running low on cigarettes)




I briefly considered grief counseling as a possible profession:
I was talking to my aunt about this back in August
And we both concluded that no one knows pain
Quite like people who have actually experienced it,
And that we were both more than qualified candidates for the job,
Because we have mastered the art of mourning.
But then I remembered that I never actually take my own advice
And that I should probably actively practice what I preach
If I’m going to counsel the grieving.
And decided I’d rather be unhealthy and destructive instead.



Thanksgiving was sufficiently awkward;
I was thankful for the liquid courage supplied at dinner.



I am, however, thankful for my friends.
Home was refreshing, as it always is.
We gossiped, planned, conspired
And earned our calluses and blisters
In a magical jam session.
We practiced witchcraft,
Wrote spells and read our fortunes,
Discussed micro-science,
And the strange phenomenon where siblings convince themselves
That it’s perfectly acceptable to throw things at each other
(if you have a brother or sister, you this animalistic rage and exchange.)
We freaked out about the power of technology and the government,
Traumatized ourselves after watching UFO videos on the Internet
And the insanity that is lady gaga,
Decided that lady gaga and Dakota fanning were probably aliens
And briefly considered falling off the grid completely
To live in a house out in the middle of nowhere
To be one with nature.

And ride horses.

And then promptly decided that that was a terrible idea.



My grandma was telling me
That back in the forties, when celebrities got divorced,
The husbands would give their ex-wives their weight in gold
As compensation.



But I don’t want a pound of flesh, or your weight in gold, just your love.