bone by bone

 PART I

I was hit at the same intersection twice two isolated incidents except that they were exactly the same. both times headed to work. both times certain (at 16, and then 17) I had the right of way. both times my car was hit from the left.

I am not good. I mean, I'm fine. I mean well. I'm not trying to cause harm. But “good” is not the word.

There is that song Only The Good Die Young by Billy Joel and it was kind of my personal anthem for years before I attached any meaning of good and dead versus bad and alive. in the song the thrust- if you will- is a young man pleading for his -- let's say, “ romantic” interest to “come out, come out, Virginia” But, Virginia is too busy being Catholic, being good

I was Catholic I’m named Virginia but if any young man had been crooning at my window I would have fucking jumped

I did lots of jumping over the years into the arms of bad, and ” bad” wasn't always packaged as a teenage boy, but I was only sung to once, as I recall…

If I was good, would I, once struck by a worldwide pandemic, be so wildly without a way?

When I stitch together the adulthood of my whims I get a blanket. and it is warm and “ interesting” and it works but it is not a normal blanket. it is not a blanket one would display slouched over the side of a sofa in her living room. it will never see the pages of a magazine or catalog. no one is buying this blanket. I wouldn't have bought it. it's just what I was left with. Like, I wasn't going to buy a chicken carcass; it's going to make a great stock, but it's only here because I wanted chicken.

Are you following? The blanket = my experiences Chicken meat = the good times

But I am 46

and measuring

my life

in metaphorical fowl . . .

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