Sadness

I am having sadness. The sadness is in me. I am sad. The black dog stares at me darkly from across the street. I look away. I push the sadness away. I push it hard. It bends away from me and the dog runs from me. That is the way of sadness. It is weak.
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So glad to be sad

I've been off the Lexipro for a bit now and have had to chase occasioanl flecks of sadness away. Mainly they scoot off. I just saw the Meet the Press honoring Tim Russert and wept a wet cry. Two nights ago I was afraid I'd made the grilfriend think I didn't love her and that made me cry. And there was another, third, thing that brought tears and I forgot what that was. The Lexipro was a leveler, sanding the highs down and smoothing up the lows and the result was manufactred.
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Not gay

There's a guy in my office, I call him "the aging paralegal," who for about five years now has commented every time I've gotten a haircut. "You look so young," he says, "every time you cut your hair short." The truth is that I like him every time he says this. I like him a lot. I like looking young, and I like anyone who says I look that way. I don't worry that he's blowing smoke up my butt hole because there's simply no way he's gay. He's a former football player for Central Michigan University and, trust me, he's not packing fudge. I'd grown to count on his standard compliment every time I got a haircut, to take it for granted. But the last time I'd buzzed it off I got nothing. This concerned me. Was I looking older. Was the antidepressant putting so much fat on my face that haircuts did nothing for me. And then, relief. I got shorn on Saturday and Monday the not gay, aging paralegal who once played football for Central came through for me. Young again.
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Macy Gray and my self contempt

I bought the Macy Gray album ("My Life?" -- who knows, who cares) when I was workin' like a crazed nut tryin' to get my wife to love me again. I took it home and played it plenty. I listened to it when I was sculpting, painting, doing yard work, driving to the office, drivin' home, and trying to sleep with my heart, head, and body aching from the pain of once having her love and then not having it. I didn't really like her voice but that didn't matter none. She was like a shot to the vein.
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Pictures

One day I was snapping photos of you. I snapped and snapped. You looked tense, but I kept hitting the button. I laughed and joked and said how pretty you were. You kept looking tense, but less so, and I kept taking your photograph, one shot after another. Soon I got a photograph of you, and then another, and yet another. This weekend I looked at those pictures and marveled.
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My dream

I have a dream that I wake up on the gutter in Chicago. I know right where it is. It's in front of a sheet music store under the El. I've had this dream for years. In the dream I tell myself: You knew this would happen, you've dreamed it for years. And indeed I have.
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Daddy-daughter

She hates me. Oh, she hates me. I try to put the focus on her but she hates me. She wants to go to boarding school and she hates me. She said her mom was crazy and it was my fault and I saw the pain and the rage but then I saw that she hates me.
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