Little Black Dot

i'm going to be in bed by ten thirty tonight.
on a saturday
saturn day.
i don't remember the last time this happened.
a long time ago.
maybe i'll read the power of silence until the end.
maybe i'll listen to the elohim tape.
maybe i'll fall into a deep sleep.

my pashmina smells like beer and cigarettes.
everything i own smells like beer and cigarettes, it seems.
tonight i took a shower.
i don't remember the last time i took a night shower either.
and when i got out i just felt so
clean, and i changed into fresh leggings and my
safe sweater.
it's this old non-colour beige long john type thing that my dad wore on ski trips
before i was born, before he was too busy
for ski trips. sometimes i marvel that everything i wrap myself up in when i'm cold and lonely once belonged to my father.
the red plaid boxers. the geomarine tshirt. the winter vest, the sunglasses.
i don't own any clothing that ever belonged to my mother.
i marvel at that, too.

brit just called and i turned down her invitation to lucky bar.
my soul will be there, i said.
i also turned down sarah's goodbye party
and for what?
for bon iver. for self portraits. for robert niles and carlos castaneda and the empty loft and the silence and the sadness stirred up in me and the salt lamp,
that only lonely heart, glowing.

i'm so tired of this, but it's not over.
it's never over.
the circles keep turning and the light keeps burning
until it goes out.