Late, Cold

Something woke me, either the cold or a noise, it's early morning and I need to stoke the fire. Don't want to get up, but the consequences would be worse than the sequences so I finally drag my ass out of bed, don bathrobe and hat, address the dying fire. Coal black, under overcast, I need an armload of wood, and the back porch light is so bright it hurts my eyes. Inside, the house is not too bad, in the 50's probably, and I catch the last embers with kindling and starter stickers, build a good fire quickly because the firebox is still hot. Serendipitous timing. Might as well have a drink and a snack, a grilled cheese sandwich sounds good, a mug of chicken broth with a slug of whiskey. Turn the lamp down low. Living alone, my habits don't seem peculiar. Reading Derrida at 2:22 in the morning is a perfectly natural thing. I'll crash on the sofa for another couple of hours before I go to work. Life on the installment plan. Can't find Jesus, but he'll probably find me. Best thing is the quiet, kill the breaker for the fridge and all you hear is the snapping of twigs, as they crack in the cold. If you asked me in my sober moments, I probably wouldn't choose to be here, but here I am. Down pallet on the floor. A poor excuse. The way she called my name. Tom, she said, you need to experience this, you'll be better for it. I had nothing better to do. What the fuck. All text, all the graphic arts, everything, really, leads us toward finally dying. The holidays always kill me, because it becomes so obvious, you live and then you die. You can rail against it all you want. I have a fair amount of free time, so I've read extensively, to see what other people thought, we all arrive at the same place. A house and a job. Kids, if you're lucky, so someone will remember you. Salvation, for me, was just watching. I didn't need a doctor, all I needed was to look at what was right in front of me. Fucking lilies of the field. You're looking good, did I say? I love those boots. I don't need nobody to tell my troubles to. When my text talks back to me. Mountains fall back to plain. Shelter me Lord underneath your wing. I'm gone, I think, feeding ginger-bread houses to crows. I'm going back to Tennessee.