Off to Amsterdam

I closed my eyes and a week has passed, one filled with chaos and angst.  I shook it off last night with the help of lots of tequila and the gregarious company of the Rev. Timmy James, who just bought a house near us at the beach.  Before long, I hope to have a seaside compound going--like the Kennedy's had in Kennebunkport but with less Dynasty and more mescaline. 

I leave tomorrow for a few days in Amsterdam.  Sadly, it will be for work and I expect I won't see much of it, outside my hotel.  I haven't been there since I was sixteen.  My mother took my brother and I there for a vacation in a last ditch attempt to salvage what was left of our family (he had left home by then, I was to follow weeks later).  I remember the three of us walking through a flea market together.  It was an especially hot day and a man stood in his underwear selling large, gooey bricks of hash.  My brother and I stared at the display greedily--he imagining its value in resale and I thinking about consumption.  My mother was clueless.
"Why is that man in his underwear?  Why is he selling mud?  Who wants mud?"
Thinking back, this episode says a lot about my family.

I continue to work on new poems, as well as the Blanche Barrow novel.  Here's an excerpt from the latter:

It was on her wedding night that Blanche decided to leave her husband, John Calloway—even before he had nearly beaten her to death.  She made her decision during a much gentler moment, as Blanche watched her new husband undress in front of the fireplace.  He was just so old.  And while Blanche had known going in that he was more than 30 years her senior, she had not expected the pale ghost that appeared before her with grey eyes and grey skin, his bones shaking like Dickensian coins as he lumbered across the room.

Here's a new poem as well.  The ending feels a bit clumsy to me but I like the imagery.

Dirigible
I am an airship
torn between flight
and combustion,
tethered to our bed
with promises
stockings and pearls.

You are an anchor,
your hips ballast
against the storm.
Smother me between
your hungry thighs
until the air
Is. Gone.

We are co-pilots
in my crash landing.