Been That, Done There

I keep telling myself the same story, bit by incremental bit, in a nuanced sort of challenge to the interiors of my motivation’s certain lack. I am never too bored or exhilarated by it. Anyhow, it goes something like this:

“I was a barmaid before I was a cigarette girl, and somebody’s goddaughter, sure. I had golden locks and all the likes. Nothing to spilt hairs over. Made the best kidney pie for miles, and had a hamster under lock-and-no-key named Hermit the Gopher. It wasn’t the wildest of lives, but the rhubarb went down easy as soda, and you didn’t have to look far to find my name in the book. I’m not one of those Big-League blondes you hear the gabbers get going on about, but I do a shyster’s fair share of mesmerizing acts. Talent just starves and slowly goes insane out here where the docks and shacks do nothing but rot into the sea.

“Not a thing to be whiffed, but some scented reminiscence still lasts like what your little head used to leave on the pillow. A rough that’s never a tumble anymore. A measure of emptiness. Too close to be gone for good, in the bash of the ocean or the hurling curl of beached seaweed. Shoes in hand. A brushy stumble on sand-crusted toes. Nobody knows. First of the month’s coming up again, all too soon. Crows big as lawnmowers are skimming the shore, and my bottle-made sense is failing to bring up the rear. Grander than all pianos, tougher than…