I asked Santa for "a shit-ton of money so I can stay home and write poetry," and he said: "Santa does not understand this 'shit-ton.' Santa does not get the concept."
So I explained that it means "a whole whole lot." Just a reminder that in all requests, whether they be of the universe or an individual, specificity is paramount.
Not writing, not running. The excuse for public consumption, and it's true, is the pay work problem. It is a vampire sucking me dry. It is condescending mansplaining tsking tut-tut-ing wretched day after stick a knife in me day. But there are other reasons, big big wild love dramas and more! Weird that it's not making me write more. My mind is not my own, it seems. It belongs to consultants and I must tear it loose somehow.
It being Mercury retrograde, I'll recycle. This was written on the beach on my birthday, while sitting between my Hot Friend E and her ex-husband.
Tell me. Give me
Directions. Sigh and say
You'll have to teach me. Make me
Banish my consciousness
Of every flaw, the flesh
Marked by seams, the scars.
Command all my awareness to fade.
Forbid guilt. Push me past shame.
Don't let me forgive myself too easily.