I am an astronaut —
Guiding three thousand pounds of faded American metal between two dashed lines painted down the twisting length of sunset boulevard.
It takes skill, poise, and grace — three traits I have in abundance despite the crocodile tears rolling down my moon-kissed cheeks.
I am a Husband —
Fogging-up the visor of my helmet as I hyperventilate through the uncontrolled tumble of outer space.
Stars twinkle in the distance then rush past my midlife crisis like the headlights of expensive cars driven by every person I’ve ever wanted to have sex with.
I cry behind the wheel of my 1983 interstellar spacecraft, never once stopping to consider the huge amount of oxygen I’m wasting by making such an awful noise.
Mascara tastes like high school when you’re flying past a collection of tents on the Eastside of Downtown.
There’s no gravity here, no U-turns, no sound, no cops, no reception, no judgement, and no reason to waste this perfectly applied lipstick and an almost perfect martini buzz.
My affair with the radio is older than my infatuation with my father’s eventual death and like any longtime relationship words are becoming less important as the years go on.
I turn the knob and hear the low hum of the wings sweeping back as we make our descent into the swirl of the all-consuming dark.
Somewhere between rings made of frozen rocks, my seatbelt, and the worst city in the world, my favorite song begins to play.
I am alone and this time I really mean it.
I am alone and this time I really mean it.
I am alone and this time I really mean it.