I’m not having any feelings

I say, "I’m having trouble feeling grateful for my injured hamstring and I have great sex everyday with someone I love." I don’t really like to write about sex. I’m worried about the bees but I can’t plant a garden, but I talk about bees with everyone who has a garden. I see plenty of hummingbirds. I don’t like to write about sex, but I like to have sex. You all know, more or less, everything there is to know about my sex life. Maybe you would like to know more, I don’t know. Probably some of you would. The parrot who lives with me, Lester, enjoys eating chicken. Many of the chickens I’ve known enjoy eating chicken. I know well enough to know, I think, when he’s enjoying himself. However, I’ve never really known a chicken well, so I can’t really say completely whether or not the chickens I saw eating chicken enjoyed it. Lester also enjoys eating rice, quinoa, and most kinds of fish. I think I know what consciousness is, but consciousness is varied, doubtless. Just because we can’t experience something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I don’t know how Lester experiences his feelings, but he has them. Two words I haven’t used in a poem are jejune and ballast. I’m thinking about the footage of all those dolphins being slaughtered on the beach in Iki, Japan. I watched the first part of it and Mark said “don’t look” and I didn’t, but I’d already seen enough of it to know that it would become one of those images that I’d remember and obsess on forever, like a documentary on the Vietnam War that I saw in high school.

Yesterday I was feeling suicidal again at work, so I left at 1pm and headed home to hug the children.

I wrote on my door of madness, and instead of the robotic entheo-runes, out flowed natural, zen like calligraphic script!