I’ve Designed It That Way
It was true when Townes Van Zandt said, “My life will run out before
my work does--I’ve designed it that way,” and I’ve been wondering--
is that what it means to have a heyday? As far as I’m concerned
the prime of a girl’s life has nothing to do with work and everything
to do with how long she can eat the whole thing and not gain weight,
cake and Coca-Cola by her uncle’s pool where he’ll grunt,
“Skinny mini!” and she’ll fake embarrassment. There’s nothing like
arching into a compliment or cat call like pushing into your man who stands
pressed against the edge of the bed, aiming straight for you. Townes had
a few wives and as is usual when I see a many-married man I wonder if
fading looks were a factor. My looks will run out and then my life will--
I’ve designed it my way or the highway, the fuck you mean who am I getting
all dressed up for? That thing about the unobserved life not worth living--
Observe this ass, okay? Just as I observe that I say, “He’s probably gay,”
or, “He’s probably married” a couple more times each day. Townes’ days
they were the Highway Kind, they only came to leave. The leaving he didn’t
mind, it’s coming that he craved, and it’s the coming that I crave, and
it’s the coming that I crave. Oh, Townes, you get it. Oh, Townes, you didn’t
know the unobserved life at all, so it can’t be that unusual for me to be
disappointed when what I think is roadkill is actually just a wet McDonalds bag.
Let me observe the gore, to know how I will end if I’m lucky, dead before
my time, before my breasts get the memo to fly south, before my neck
catches wind. Observe me like you observed Townes: He died young but
later than we’d hoped, without 27 Club glory, and why not, after all that
talk of locking himself into rooms and drinking for weeks on end and sure,
he died before his work ran out but not before developing wrinkles, having
kids, and I guess he stopped looking for his heyday, to which I say thanks
for the cautionary tale. I will work myself to death like you, Townes, but
I refuse stick around too long. I’ll stop rejection before it stops me, I’ve designed
it that Black Dahlia way, that Sharon Tate way, with a Jane Mansfield
firework finale that explodes like an improperly tapped keg all across the highway.
Sarah Morrison is a musician and poet from Tallahassee, FL. Her 2017 collection Unmentionables won the Mart P. Hill award for Outstanding Honors Thesis in English. She has been published in Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Apalachee Review, and elsewhere. After the completion of an upcoming musical project, she intends on returning to school for her MFA.