A Prayer

Odds are I'm suicidal by now. My nerves are all over

the place. Rushes to my extremities, tinnitus.

I think of all the missed opportunities. In itself, that is

unnerving. Never work-related, the regrets.

Art matters, I make art, yet I struggle

to matter. I don't connect. Or maybe it's just the

rushes, a result of poor decision-making. Somehow, though, I am

clear of mind now, without alcohol, the latter having

gotten me here. How is this an achievement? What is an

achievement? Sex with the girl from Detroit, sex with the American

girls from Boston Catholic, sex with the heavy-breasted Brazilian

client, sex with the petite Marianne, sex with the black girl

half my age, sex with the Swiss virgin, sex with the Argentine

hooker, sex with the French anal fiend, sex with the French

anal-loving lawyer, sex with the Liberal slut, sex with

(name omitted, because I have limits), sex with my Japanese Queen, sex with an Italian virgin,

sex with Marie. I'm overly sensitive.

What a rough road. Now straight ahead. Well, for adventure,

we've gotten our fill.

I just want to feel better, God, please. You see, I don't make sense.

This isn't even writing, just a suicide for no rational reason.

God, you were there, that day: I did as I thought most responsible -

so much time has elapsed. There is no such thing as fairness, just this.

My father is dying, God. Make it stop. (Name omitted), I wish your family ill.

Because I have been unfit to walk away from a loser like you.

It's not fair, so I refuse it, thus making things right, in time.

Just now insanity holds onto me. I'm angry.

God, this is my last line. Who was that on the phone?