Cowboys, Angels, Gansters, Etc.

There is this boy I have known for a few years. Lovely to look at and fragile as a fresco. He's everything cowboys are made of. Gangsters and Angels as well. Tall, broad-shouldered, blue eyes with little lines from squinting and a square and honest jaw.

I think he has to wake up some mornings and check himself out in the mirror and just say

goddamn I'm glad I'm me

But it doesn't matter, really. His affect says otherwise. Every now and again I'll hear from him and I wonder if he has my disorder.

There is a piece of myself that actually keeps scores and ranks based on superficial shit if it is even remotely supported by a spiritual skeleton. That piece of me sometimes thinks that if it looks okay? It can be smoothed out. It could work.

But people aren't paintings or frozen moments in time. People are broken. People are works in progress at their most evolved and noteworthy best.

That's it. That's all we get.

So when once in a while I get a holler from him I wonder if it's that beautiful bookend version of himself hoping not to be left standing solo on the shelf.

Not that I am nearly as lovely.

Not that I am nearly as cool.

Just that on paper I make Perfect Sense.

Blargh. None of this is what I came here to say.

Today I got a Package from a Far Away Suitor. And you know how all this time I've been insisting that it's possible to pay tribute? Moaning to you over and over again about how I'd go to the fire, to the limit come what may if I felt like someone was bold enough to make a thing in my honor?

The heavens heard me.

They answered.

The result showed up at my job today in a plain envelope - I've been a-buzz ever since.

Then I came home and wrote this proposal that's like seven years long and tonight I've got the sense that it's Finally Fucking Done, you know? I've done the damn thing.

All that's left is to sleep through the evening and wake up ready to handle whatever comes my way.

And so I shall.

G'night.