nobody wants to hear

Nobody wants to hear about my every­day life anymore. Nobody wants the truth I want to offer up, even though I listen courteously to your bullshit, mindless intellectual swill spewed over organic dinners with vegan options. My small talk’s not spicy like your authentic curry recipes. The setting for my anecdotes are smoky bars or seedy truck stops or a one bedroom flop for misguided and horny youth. The characters in my anecdotes aren’t five hundred pound, no good, mohawked boyfriends with shitty bands’ and shitty vans that I have to crawl under to unstick the gears. At least not anymore.

Nobody wants to hear about my new life. About writing and insomnia and bowel movements so black and hard they look like lumps of coal staining the bowl. About caring for cast iron, lovingly caressing the heavy black weight of a lightly rusting pan with two fingers, lubed up in lard. Nobody wants to hear about a man who’s slowly dying from depression and a burning mind of black nostalgia. A man who’s ready to die. Demented and dimmed by his age. Yet, sharp as a cliché tack. Nobody wants to hear…