Hampton Inn, Portland

I’m in the twilit zone of happiness where sadness likes to give me a hard time, handing over a passel of death certificates and other documents that require I read the fine print and then sign.

Samuel Beckett’s, I can’t go on, I must go on collide.

Somewhere a star is being born but I can’t see it, having been instructed from the cradle to see only the form behind the form, an unreformed Platonist.

My late brother’s face has married my late-sister-in-law’s body, or is this just my imagination?

The sentiment, I’m sorry for your loss loses almost all of its meaning.

The neighbor in the room next door comes home drunk at 1 am. Then he starts talking loudly to himself. I knock on the wall for him to knock it off, and he knocks back.

I wonder? Where do I go from here?