Practice

Colman. Greensboro, North Carolina. January, 2011.

I sit and stare at walls

Bleak moments, these, pregnant with anxieties that, though still young, seemed as old as his own age would allow; descended from a long, hearty line of anxieties not so different from today's. Anxieties about cars crashed or fallen into disrepair, dwindling reserves of personal capital, disappointed girlfriends left wondering what it is, exactly, that they're doing sticking around, debt (always of debt!) amassed to, seemingly, no personal gain, the mere prospect of having to feed himself yet again with food prepared in haste and with a lack of skill, and, of course, his having these anxieties at all.

And hey

I'm sorry, but what can I say. Nothing's seemed to work out for me anyway.

An Old Poem

I am haunted by the ghost of you

Standing loose-limbed and angry

The corner of a mouth turned slightly down

A brow furrowed almost indistinguishably

I can taste exasperation

I can taste disgust

I can feel frustration

"We" has wilted, slowly

No matter where I go

I'll still be there.

A Dream

I swim clothed through water cold and black. I am in a marsh or swamp of some kind and I push through roots and stalks and detritus. To my left, I believe, is the end of the world. I can see abandoned houses, but they are off the map, beyond the border, unreachable. One sits closer to me than the rest. Laid over the edge of the front porch, its neck arched, head resting on the bottom step, is a horse recently dead. I look behind me and see other horses struggling through the water towards me. Though they struggle, they seem at peace. I struggle, too.

I step gingerly through woods newly clothed in snow. The world is now devoid of color. We do not walk together. We do not often walk together. You are always ahead. I trample the imprints your shoe has pushed into the powder in boots a size too big.