Slip of the Tongue

I never considered myself an introvert.

Seems like that’s the prerequisite for a writer, though. Right? Brooding, sitting alone in corners, surrounded by cumulus swirls of cigarette smoke and an obligatory Stein of coffee attached to one hand. A perpetual scowl heaped on top of a black turtleneck. Every sentence mired in the greater meaning of life and the conspiracies of love, politics, and the institution.

Fuck that shit.

I don’t like sitting alone in corners. I love my coffee, true. Replace the cigarettes with incense, replace the conversations with candor and humor. That’s where I sit. Not alone. Maybe with one or two others.

And I can’t tell if that’s introverted. What if it’s just being selective? Really, I often feel fairly empty and alone. Many times, even when I’m physically not. I don’t have answers for that. I don’t have medication. I just have coping mechanisms. And they don’t always work.

So many of us are closed off. Stoic vehicles maneuvering between the circles of our friends. We don’t feel connected to them, even when they’ve known us forever. We smile, play polite games, function rationally. But the mind goes elsewhere and hides. The smiles are thousands of miles away. Or hundreds.

But never here.

There are so many of us.



“Slip of the Tongue”

I have an auditory addiction.

Chemical synthesis stimulated by whispers and sighs,
A need to be injected through membranes and synapses.
I hold staggered breaths in wait for the next hushed syllables,
Leaking elixir from a drawled ‘lapsus linguae’.

Invading my moonlit bordello.

Syntaxed visions of steeled satin caresses,
I succumb nightly to the tempestuous invocations,
Riding a rush of debauchery defined by punctuated palpitations,
And an appreciation for the spoken art of gratification.

©2005 J.W.








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