There’s nothing wrong with listening to the same song over and over.
This is time of the night where the moon sits on my face and farts.
“God, that’s crude!” My one reader shouts from across the city.
“Well, who asked you?” I shout back. “You said you loved Bukowski!”
Cats scramble underneath the fence and a man leans on the fire escape and shouts for quiet. The blimp bursts into fire and the black sheep makes his escape.
If I were more patient with myself I’d make myself happy. Instead I’m downing another beer and listening to Swan Lake and wondering if I were made of ice would I have to melt to survive the fires of your heart. As I said goodbye we shook hands and the sun rose over the desert cruel and snaggle-toothed.
When it ends you have no good plans, just sappy, sorry sighs.
I took apart the cathedral and built a mantle from your church wood.
You softly cried one thousand moans…
You were the one made of bones…
Made of flesh that was on loan…
Not mine to own…
The drummer boy bangs on the wall, the ghost leaps across the finish line, the pillow thief left a tooth. Be careful if you hear love calling, it has no attention span and no getaway plan. If you could replace a piece of yourself would you take my hand? I’ve got a knife with a serrated edge yet no leverage on the dark, dark places of this heart. Buddha is no match for my evil streak.
What is it that I want? Just more question marks????????????
I’ve got a fucking box of them and plan to have a garage sale.
Are you interested?
Your name escapes me but the memory of your face rapes me. “How crude!” You shout again. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, I built a mantle from your church wood. “I’ve never sworn to sophistication!”
I had a friend. I had a mother. I went to a dead end with my lover.
If there was one instrument I could play it would be something so large I could never leave the house to play it. Like a piano or maybe a tuba. I would have grand parties with fabulous, glamorous people, worldly in myriad ways, and entertain them with song after song, and marry some girl named Zelda who dazzles the audience with her boa twirling, and we would recite beatnik poetry till the garbage trucks come and remove my guests, and then me and Zelda retire to the bedroom to dance silently among the sheets and whisper little secrets. Things no one else knows. Like, when I was six I locked my cat in a drawer for three days by accident. And I would start to tear, for the universe doesn’t know forgiveness and this early in the morning my sensitivity is too heightened to share secrets. And I would hear the cat purring as I drift off into ocher dawn.
Whiskey is just a smoke screen, like expectations and confessions…
But the truth. The truth, the truth, the fucking fucking truth… insomnia plagues me again.
My old friend keeps me company these lonely nights. Helicopters patrol the lower heavens where smog pushes paper airplanes crashing into blueberry bushes. If there is a God, I’m already screwed.
I push repeat on the Ipod and am reminded of cupcakes and tuna fish sandwiches…
Zelda wakes me up and whispers, “you’re talking in your sleep again, F. Scott.”
So I am…