(spare an ounce)

My brain is the crush of salt air coming off the long western seas where (they tell me) i'd find the last resting place of more than my fair share of the radical dreamer who once worked to save my life and died on a car ride.

My father was holding his hand.

I didn't say goodbye, of course. i didn't even know until two months later (three into my treatment) when my mother let it slip over dinner.

"They left Mark out at sea."

It seemed a romantic idea at the time, but these days i don't know if romance is really worth all that much of a good goddamn when it comes to my uncle being dead. not that i know what does.

Maybe nothing.

Dead is dead, after all and i'm alive. so is my father and the other four brothers (some of whom, i'm sure, where there that sunday). and that's for the best isn't it?

Is it?

I don't really know what i'm getting at. or where i'm trying to go. it just seems i don't think all that much about dying anymore though i know it's coming sooner for me, for us than most.

We smoke too much. drink too heavily. and just plain don't give a damn about what happens to our wretched bodies.

Fuck, that's grim.

The wrong line for a saturday i'm supposed to spend toasting with my confusing ex and the friends i sometimes call my own (even if that's now a faded claim) when all i really want to do is crawl into my head and sleep nice and lonely.

Maybe i just need a good stiff drink to help the cycle around.