Excerpt: "Two Decembers and Some Months"

The moon is a constant. The stars get all the attention like stars do, but stars move and stars die. The moon is the meticulous bastard of the night sky. Sure, it moves, but it's always along the same avenues, always to the same places and shops and late night eateries of tiny hours; it is always booked in advance. Sure, it weens and wanes, but it lets us know it's schedule; it always tells us how much of it will be in attendance. And it's always there, our eyes just aren't always good enough to see it. I love it most, like most people, when it's big and white. It takes me places when it's in that jolly large mood. I focus my eyes on it and let the peripherals of my eyes fill in whats around me.

It's Thursday right now, but the sides of my eyes tell me it's 753 days ago and we are on my back porch sharing a cigarette in happy silence.

It's today Thursday but the sides of my eyes tell me it's 3 Augusts ago and we are on a rented balcony and we can hear waves as we watch the rain.

It's nearly Friday but the sides of my eyes tell me it's a month plus some days ago and I'm pulling Nicole's cigaretted hand towards my mouth.

Two minutes to Friday and the sides of my eyes tell me I'm laying on a blanket over sand holding Marie a couple of Marchs past.
I don't know how I keep losing days but get stuck in weeks; the twelves and the rotation just don't suit me very well. My peripherals always just show me what's done; regret is the best television.

I rarely miss my bed. Whenever I curl up alone in my comforter it's just been a bust of a night; no spirits and smoke. I prefer couches and floors with make shift blankets of coats and second shirts, they always let me know what memories I should have. I am no meticulous bastard of anything except the wave and tide ebb and flow; the dead jellyfish or lacadaisical crustaceon.