This is actually not that old, but perhaps explains the hiatus…

Poetry… must be the dullest, most laughable hobby—as I would never have the masochism it takes to call it a profession—ever. Even dead butterfly collectors are more interesting—way more! God, even stamp collectors are something of a rarity these days. But poets? I guess there is nothing cheaper than words, after all. And we are all so special, every single one of us unique. And needy. And lamentably self-absorbed. Oh, but we are supportive: scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. All the leftover nerds in the world have found a hallway narrow enough to hear their thoughts echo. Magic! Pure magic, this camaraderie of spirit, of words! The only magical thing about it is that we actually believe it. But we’re not the first to believe; there will always be God ahead of us, attracting more wayward souls. Or less. Oh, what difference does it make? What does it take to wake us up? Our death served on a bill? And wake up to what? I’m going back to sleep; Kathy Griffin is waiting.

Below are a few entries from my journal that never made it here…

I have often looked at human wreckage with the awe and anticipation born out of a fear of the very real possibility, if not likelihood, that one day I could join the ranks.

I sweat profusely in airports, like I’m clenching something illicit in me. I become wet and slippery as phlegm. I reek of anxiety; the more perfume I try on, the worst I smell. Anxiety grows on me like a pungent mold. Almost imperceptibly, but obstinately, until I am no more than a concoction of animal essences riddled by paperwork. Paperwork to prove the paperwork, the stale stench of bureaucracy. I am one smelly drawer of manila folders, with proof of existence inside. What becomes of me when the paperwork burns? What becomes of it when I do? I will reek further, and it—it will procreate.