Charlie Chaplin died on my first birthday. I don’t remember if there was a pall over the celebration or for that matter, if there was a celebration of any measure besides the obvious, Christmas.
I’ve been getting sick for the past few days and today am full blown – too headachey and tired to write worth a damn, mainly posting to let the people I owe letters to that I haven’t forgotten them. I will write soon, this week in fact – just not today.
February 15
and I sober from
valentines day, sober from
cards revealing love
and whatnot
sober from peanuts specials
sober from cupcakes
sober from closeness
sober from rich dinners
prepared and consumed
with bread
– unfinished, Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 