Everything I do in my 40's makes me feel as if I stayed in the pool too long. I'm tired and sunburned, out of breath, shivering in the shade, cautious of the diving board, bored of diving, occasionally shrieked with joy, wrinkled, racing the perimeter, near dead and drowned from grasping death; in fear of submersion; with a waning, lost, audience; searing; a single shriveled scroti, peeing in the pool. Life, barely a breath.
It should be said: the water really is cold, as am I. I hate the one weak testicle. Its soft, fruitless ways.
Everything once felt like summer now; hearing the winter, being often far from home most of all; I close the openings down, there are chills along the night and days, biting along the window; an aging man's body howling, a ghost attic, a whore's loft - a blind man's clearing of an empty house.
With this direction steering, I'd make an okay artist, or a last blind's date.
Something dark and soft and ripe, and late.
