affairs of the heart
are ill suited to airplanes, airports and nosy side passengers. It amplifies those voices in the basement that like to holler and bang pots, driving me to distraction. Floating in and out of consciousness with the subtle reminder of the body in the form of cramps, the sound of the air pressure sucking out waste products in flight, the casual flickering of whatever film is playing in front of me while all around the crazy compactness of it is growling constantly in grey noise, these are all very bad things for my brain. Some part of me is getting disintegrated in the displacement and I pray to heavens I can recover all the bits again.
But now I am back home, in this aged exquisite corpse of a city, digging into a carton of a cigarettes that cost me less than dozen oysters, bloodying my eyes with sleep deprivation and wondering how late it needs to get before I can grab a beer and pick up the phone.
Why do I even say I’m home? What is this place?
My home, the home of the heart, is somewhere nestled in the crook of arm, feeling him sleep with the weight of a leg thrown over my hip.
So I am homeless, again.
