My supposed former infatuation fiancé spent the weekend engaging in New York debauchery with other bloggers and drunken co-dependents. We haven’t had that talk about…er…boundaries, so I shouldn’t complain. And yet. I’m afraid to ask if the shine is fading.
I have been the most absurd gimp lately. Remember when I told you that retail therapy doesn’t work? Well, it goes further. It’s actually harmful to your health. Granted, I never should have worn a new pair of boots to work all day. I should have broken them in gradually; an hour or two here, a dinner out there. But no, I left the house and midway on my walk to work I realized I had made a really bad decision. Ouch. Ouch ouch ouch. Now my Achilles tendon is sore and every pair of shoes I own rub it the wrong way. Limp, limp, limp. No gym, no running, no pounding the sidewalk looking for a new apartment. And Louie, slow down already; your daddy is hopelessly pathetic.
Really, though, this retail injury only serves to highlight the issue that I stumbled upon round about 4 a.m this morning. Tossing and turning, I gave up and logged on, drifting from link to link and realizing, comparatively, that I don’t have enough fun. I need more corporeal satisfaction and bliss. I have been far too cerebral and grief-stricken, and the physical specimen that is dogpoet has been missing out. Really, it all ties together. A drought of sex, the disruption of my gym routine, a sense of uneasiness about the self I project. I haven’t shown other white people how to dance in over a year and a half. What I mean to say is, my body needs some attention. From me, mainly, then others as they see fit. I wake in the morning and hate all my clothes. I want to look the way I feel; I want to look like a human bullet. No more sensitive poet bullshit. I want to be a solid hunk of tattooed manhood. No more plaid boxy campshirts. No more oversized raingear. I want to look like walking sex, even at work. Especially at work. I want to be inappropriate and distracting. You can read my books later. Right now, just want me.
“I want to be the things I see-
give every face and place my name.
I cross the street, take a right-
Pick up the pace, pass a fight.
Did I grow up
Just to stay home?
I’m not immune-
I love this tune.”