I’ve been too much of a nighthawk lately. I need to come down for a rest.
It was my birthday and then my friend’s birthday and so we celebrated with shots and more and then my sister was in town and we caught up over bottles of wine and then it was just a beautiful Sunday afternoon and so a perfect excuse for burgers and beer at Father’s Office and now friends are talking sushi and I’m sitting here forgetting all my commas and periods and wondering how long I can keep this run-on sentence running on.
I guess that answered that!
The other day a cat was on my doorstep, purring its little lungs out, scratching at my door like I owed him twenty bucks. I took it as some kind of good luck. Like I’m bound to win the lottery or something.
Do you remember being young and writing poems about surfing and blond girls named after flowers? Yeah, me neither!
I’ve been catching up on my T.S Elliot… the women coming and goin’ talking of Michaelangelo-in’. I’ve been staring at my shoebox of receipts, afraid to count them all out and put names to the faces or faces to the name. So many ghosts come and go through the vaporized smoke I can hardly type fast enough to escape the good times. She had eyes that could penetrate even the toughest of stones and yet she never used them for good. If she were a waitress I’d have tipped her thirty percent, but nobody tips a heart-thief.
My name is in the papers, but that’s not me — or else it’s really me and most of the time I’m someone else. I’m Walt Whitman’s spurned lover. The crushed grape used to make the wine that Dionysus drinks. The guitar pick left onstage when you discovered Rock N’ Roll can save your soul. I’m Rodney Dangerfield’s wife giving him no respect.
I have three spiral notebooks, with torn pages and half written-down ideas, sitting on my desk like literary detritus, my soul’s flotsam. They stare at me menacingly, like a short chollo who just got a bad haircut looking for trouble. I grabble through them, looking for trouble. We meet in the dark and battle for supremacy. Sometimes the art wins, sometimes the starving artist. Tonight I’m more thirsty than starving. It ends in a draw.
Patterns of patter perpetuate themselves like DNA helix. I have a bag of frozen gnocchi to heat up on the stove top and it’s not a Pulitzer, but right now it’s going to have to be good enough. Satori flashes about me like St. Elmo’s Fire and I think for a second I’ve found my kingdom come, yet there I am after, alive and transmogrified.
A stick figure with bubble thoughts…. A Joshua tree alone under the moonlight….
You’re out there, I know, with broken zippers and fuzzy slippers. I’d pen a paean to you, but I don’t think it’d matter much. You have other, more beautiful, subjects to praise you. People think that you’re holy, but I know the truth is you’re just nighthawkkittyscratch.