I have found the face of story lying again. It came dressed as a road to my artist’s residency. And I forget I am not a

cup plotting against rain or a bartender’s last call or a man walking up and down the street, or innocent. My therapist

asked me, what is it that you can do? And I said, I’ve got this man who doesn’t respect me, this country that doesn’t

respect me, this job that doesn’t respect me, this art that keeps lying to my face! It was then that, behind the beautiful

lake I was staring at from my writing studio, that I heard myself telling the same old joke about a woman walking into a

bar. A woman walks into a bar all alone. A woman walks into a bar all alone. I keep saying it and I can’t forgive anyone

for that. Sometimes I get so tired of my sore molars and the music and the dry lipstick and the sweet coffee and the

alarm clock and the country road. No one likes a joke without surprise. I prefer white wine this week. And my to-do

list is insurmountable and also, written in purple and pink. I give my life to it. Pour it in my mouth.