The More You Wait, The More You Wait

I was right in the middle of retooling the junk shop of my head when I got delayed by someone else’s lateness. It wasn’t the brightest mode of being that I’d discovered, but it lighted my days well enough. I made sweeter rolls of decisions into ragged pastries of inaction. Everything I was in the habit of giving voice to was being taken lightly as sprinkled powdered sugar anyway. And then, without even an intonation to my name, I thought, “Well, that’s a recipe for resting in peace earlier than you’d like.” All these people with bad breath asking me worse questions. Right or wrong, I’m getting away from this…all of this. It’s not like telling someone who’s insisting on pestering you to just shut up. Get all those tattoos redone. Change your hair style. Wink and frown at harmless strangers with bowtie souls and grape-jelly appetites. Be someone different. Take the roots of home back where you left them: all ways always away. Just another cheap Christ substitute that you’re spilling all over me. Christ. Just the messenger. What’s the matter with a dirty mouth if it gets you a reprieve from thoughts of dying? And dying’s just the one truth you get to have in this life, the only thing you can depend upon. Montana’s got better shrubbery for my disposition. Or maybe Ann Arbor. Besides, I get too planted in the desert’s barren lack, and then, well, all of my shouldered chips and ships start shuddering with the…