But of course I am a poet. Lanie…Ashlynn…no, it was Breonnah. Breonnah told me last night that my words were magic, like Lucky Charms, somewhere in between the first sip of alcohol and the exhaustion afterwards, lying spent on her bed. She told me she loved Rainer Maria Rilke and Carl Sandburg, and I remember thinking as I sipped my poison that those sounded like nice names to become famous with. She was sold by my act within two minutes…she spun me home to her apartment, just like every other girl has when I tell them that I love words.

I woke up, hungover, and lost my charm. She kicked me out.
Just like every other girl has when I told them that I love words.
It’s apparently not enough to mask being an asshole the morning after...

I guess when it comes down to it, I miss the music. Think back, three years ago, to Shostakovich and Dvorak and Tchaikovsky, think back to life. The music was a part of me, my trombone a second body. I played 9 to 8 and then quit for dinner and played some more. And when I performed, I was high, feeding off the energy of the audience and the conductor and the violin player twenty feet away from me. Dolce, sweet, no need for any company but music.

It was a battle between the music and the money. The money won.

The landlord sent me a notice, gave me twentydaystopayorelse. I packed up the trombone and didn’t look back. Two weeks later, I had arranged to start as a high school health education teacher. I get to teach sixteen-year-old kids about abstinence while I go home at night, get drunk and seduce women by telling them that I am a brilliant poet.

I also have wonderful friends. Sometimes I marvel at how I attract such quality companions…My best friend (my only friend, actually), is a writer. Well actually, he’s an alien, but don’t tell him I told you that…he enjoys cheesy horror films and trashy romance novels. We grab pizza every Friday night; sometimes we actually converse. It’s a rare occasion though.

Yesterday, on my way back to my apartment from Walgreens, I sang the Bartok Concerto finale in my head and missed it with every ounce of being in my body. A five-year-old passed me on the street and said mister, (faster faster louder!) mister, (louder energy sound!) MISTER! (who is calling me?) MISTER! WHY ARE YOU WAVING YOUR ARMS AROUND! and I said, what? And the little boy said you were singing! And waving your arms around! and then I remembered being the conductor in my head and I turned off the music and went home and graded more papers.

I will keep scaring little kids and pretending to be a poet and drinking until my liver shrivels up and decides it has had enough of me. I will keep doing these things and I will keep missing a part of my heart: my music.