I let some wine convince me to avoid my classwork. There it was in an open bottle in the fridge. A beer tab on top of the cork to keep the ice-flies out. The classwork was to read some Margaret Fuller or some Octavia Butler or some John Ashbury or some Herman Melville to play future catch up, to play the villain over the tops of others, of other deities with their own warm personalities, the conspiracy of one or many or other or cancelled out delirium and the 11.65 and the pay grade raise of impending doom and should try to soak the most out of the bar rag before last call as they say. The death cup is the one with the final shot of the night. The waiting for the end of the night and hoping it passes by without a spectral screaming. The whole entirety of my life is predicated by not being there for it. All I have is three different women with different agendas and habits and I have to appease them or I perish in a sense of security I truly no longer need. Does it appease you to say I shouldn’t live in a shittier situation? Probably not because you need my futile unnecessary extra space in order to grow and maybe I ruined what you thought of her and maybe Mad said we thought it out and why I matter and why the whole family is in shrugs of peaceful lukewarm confidence of future endeavors as if they matter when death is apparent. When the heart floods the lungs with its bracing warm iron water. And the chambers close off because cauterized. because snipped by a young doctor we keep our valves shut. and now now now I wonder what these three women have to do with me in my shut out conspiracy. my cravings. my swervings. my disasters of thought and intellectual starvation. my needs unfulfilled in the realm of English with a capital E and with the multiple generations of power inflicted on me in their own disgustingly charmless way like signing the lease when I’m sick or drinking the parents booze or pretending to be kidnapped to wrecking the jeep or lending the jeep or preaching the lewd photography aesthetic or wondering what in the fuck I am talking about or wondering why I got to be talking like this or wondering why I don’t just calm down or wondering why I never took the bike even after pumping up the tire or calling off work to claim a sickness I never felt more than existentially and wondering why and why the woods couldn’t cure me or why the need to apologize at my feet was necessary or why the pleasure of the refrain came with the chorus of morning birds or the chrysler covered in the tarps of old disuse. Can I fund myself in these lives of mine? Can I make the half hours count enough to make my future occur in a manner most agreeable to my psyche? Is work so easy to destroy to make Denver happen in screaming clarity? Man, is it ME or all these testy women? I wish I could be living in a motel room in el paso to figure all this shit out. I wish I could hide completely from my inevitable disastrous privilege. My white boy clean cut evergreen white center white powdery make up disposition of privilege of old money in old big golden sacks of painful deliverance of trips made up of cardboard credit and of groceries that materialize when the other faux dollars never came through because of mail-ordered negligence. And the others. If they only got off my back.