It is still cold. The book is slow. Lately,
I find myself mentally crafting elaborate
confrontations with the various men that
represent personal demons: construction
workers, politicians, condo owners, young
people living as their parents live, breeders,
consumers, watch-wearers, real estate speculators,
stock traders, perpetrators of ‘high’ and ‘fine’ art,
anyone seen in a vehicle with empty seats,
the mediocre, the decadent, the lost.
It is a waste of time and energy to torture
myself in this way, but I will continue to do so,
I know, until I am on the deck of a small ship
rounding Gibraltar, far out of reach of all judgement,
especially my own.