So I’m told I don’t write with enough feeling. Feeling. What the hell? This time, with feeling. I’m feeling a little strange tonight because I vividly remember the time I called you an asshole. Feeling a little bad about the plate I didn’t throw at you, maybe I should have. Feeling.

Yeah. I’m feeling better. Like no-shows at the movies. Like saying something too late. Like the time I didn’t kiss him and should have anyway. Or maybe I shouldn’t have. Once more, with feeling. Like what grows in the bed when I sleep and wakes me up in the morning.

Say it like you feel it. Like shucking corn on the porch when we’re both fifty—but we won’t be fifty together and the porch will haul itself along the gunwhale and go overboard.

I’m feeling sad. About what? I don’t know. About that air conditioner that said my name the other night. You have to feel it inside. Take your story elsewhere sir. Don’t write me in. And paint something more reasonable than a man growing into a gorilla. And don’t floss. Never floss. The feeling with drain from your mouth when the drill gets in.

I’ll be careful about my feelings and will only write what I’m sure no one will understand (I’ll write that and like it, smugly).

But you want a confession. Ok, with feeling:

So Jill cheated on Jack with Jack’s best friend. Dumb Jack took her back. The sex got progressively worse. So Jill dated the bard and learned about that the hard way. Jill became a lesbian. Jill fell back into the arms of Jack’s best friend for a little over a year. Jill pretended internet sex was not cheating. She left. Didn’t look back. Jill sat across from a man in a diner and the diner turned into an enormous city. Jill lifted her dress once and left him. Jill looks back constantly, with feeling. Jill holds her cat too close with feeling. Jill burns her feeling fingers with cigarettes. Jill holds her feeling poems up the feeling fan and lets the blades bat them with feeling. Jill doesn’t get out much and doesn’t want to talk about it.