The Jacket Sits Up On Its Own

I’m driving on the freeway too drunk to think, much less to stay in between some lines someone else put down in a moment long ago, a moment of practicality — they never thought of now, how we’d fight and yell and I’d drive through the rain even though we never meant half of the things we yelled — I drive because you’re not here and I’m not there, and there’s no way to stay where we are.

Only love can push you down this deep.

I’m gluing feathers onto my skin, mosquito bites onto my shins. Your mother is a motel and mine is sleeping, her last cigarette fallen onto the sheets. My keyboard is salty and there’s a pelican walking in through the door. Let down your hair so I can see your roots.

If only I could be patient. If only you could be true.

Take my picture. No matter how I feel,
I promise I’ll be smiling. I promise it will look real.

The band played and the crowd clapped along.
Everybody danced. Everybody sang the words of the song.

There is a castle on a hill, in the place of my dreams.
There is a small waterwheel. It turns around in the stream.
I wish I could go there now, and dip my hands in the water.
I’d stop time if it were allowed. I’d stopped being this martyr.

My heart is a crystal cave you keep chipping away. I can’t let the walls collapse, no matter how much I love your shinny axe. Oh, I might let the sun melt the ground, but I won’t let the ceiling fall down. I love your glorious sunshine, but I’d rather be the whole raindrop than half a rainbow.

The jacket sits up on its own. The headlights capture the broken glass in glittering disarray. The freeway knows my song, and knows I don’t know how to sing along. The tires repeat the same lies, the brakes don’t listen. The pants plead to be left alone.

Oh, I’m driving tonight, just to get away. I’m driving to see a whole new day.

I wish I were a bicycle, so I could go around and around and that would be my purpose.

If only you would come and let me into your vespertine, whispering soul.
If only there were some poem to recite to make this heart once again whole.

When I’m gone I hope to leave a tasty corpse. Eat me up and enjoy.
When I’m gone I’m going back to the source. I’m just one fishy boy.

I’m ready to reinvent again, if only there were someone to give me a patent.
I’m ready to shoot my gun inside the cabin. I’m ready to start wildly grabbing.

I want to be the destruction of your fame.
I want to be the numeral behind your name.
Oh, my heart is too hard to fall apart again.
In the morning we’ll see what dragons came.
I’m not another fan, I’m not another name.

In Harlem, in Holland, in Bosnia, in Narnia…
there is not a lion that can get this car home…
there is not a God that will forgive without a receipt.

In the city, the clocks sound like thunder.
They crash and clang and pillage and plunder.
They leave a shadow where the moss grows.

I made it home, but I’m never home.
I’m old but I’ve never grown up.
I write, but I’m not a writer.
I look in your eyes, but I will never see your soul.
The night will switch to dawn, but I’ll never go to sleep.
I lay awake in the corner, with a beer can on my knee.
I sing into a tin can, with a string attached to a crystal cave.
The lions maul the clocks, but I will never touch the moss.

Behind this cabin there is a field…
I will stand there and stare at the stars, but I will never catch a glimpse of heaven.
I will hurt, but I will never feel pain.

I swallow sand and spit out glass.
Let me crush your diamonds to dust.
I follow the flailing kites to the past.
Let this bicycle wear away with rust.

I, I, I… I’m so sick of I.


9 thoughts on “The Jacket Sits Up On Its Own

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