Some advice on un-packratting.

It's a tedious thing.
It's a tiresome
tedious task throwing
out all the relics of the past
both pointless and poignant
that don't quite make the cut
when you're packing to move
into a new place to call your own
until it's someone else's.

And if and when you find those notes
from the hands of familiar strangers
long tucked away in remote corners of desk drawers
and other dark places:
DON'T READ THEM.
Let the Whores you fell for
and the Saints who fell for you
(or vice versa, whichever version
of the Truth is correct)
die with the deposit you know you won't get back
from the landlord too cheap to be honest.
Respect their choice to go with better bets
or your refusal to let yourself be lost
in someone else, depending on the case
(and, again, whichever version
of the Truth is correct).

Calling all cars.
Calling all friends to help pack the boxes
and end tables and plush chairs
into that truck on that sweaty day you move.
Calling, once the word is out, will mostly
get you forwarded to voicemail.
When very few
and by that I mean one or two
show up, don't be surprised.
But next time you fire up someone's water heater
or fill their belly with fine food or drink
on a week when their pay checks were light
don't forget to put it on their tab.
This is not a world run by any Golden Rule anymore, folks.
It's littered with IOU's
so next time you need a favor
you just may have to pull one out
of your wallet, so thick with business cards
of endeavours long gone under
that you take it out of your back packet
for long road trips.

Or better yet:
if you're like me
just throw them
(the friends, that is
or at least their contact information)
into that same dump-bound heap
of old phone bills and broken clocks
and business cards
and most importantly
dime-a-dozen lie-laden love letters
that will never see the colors of the walls
in your new place
your new start
at least not while you're home.






Currently reading:
"One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.