The wagon wheel dumps water and covers tracks and makes a jarring sound
carrying its cart, its cargo dripping and spilling on the street, nails and bullets
and razor blades; and I’m riding shotgun with a shotgun looking for victims,
but my shotgun’s full of puns and dumb jokes, so all I do is kill you with apathy.
Steaks were sizzling, the moon was dancing; I was high, celebrating Canada Day
in Canada. There were elk and moose burgers too. I was so peaceful I fell out of a tree and into your lap. But still you looked at me like I was a strange thing. And that’s why I looked strangely back.
These are just words. The sun is blazing. Time is crisp like a suntan. I have a watch collection bigger than my wrists. This song plays on repeat, I turn it off when my ears dissolve. You know it’s not easy being a poet in 2017 when the Internet can do it for you, but I do it for me, each and every little fade away jump shot brick off the rim. Film at eleven. In your arms in heaven; in my head a mess.
I took a photograph bath, woke up inside out. I drank my wine and made my joke, and got my laugh… then slid to the left. I would say I’m a slider, but I wouldn’t be the first one. I would say I don’t feel bad, but I’m not that good at lying.
In science books, in pictures of the Earth, in all the colors, I fade into a blur.
I tightrope walk over coals. I do a swan kick on broken ice. In summer I jump into the pond. But in winter I do too. And that may be my Revenant. My sacrificial bear. The nails in my hand, my handiwork a coffin, choked on
too much talking.
Walking into a bear den with a coat of meat.
I wore a coat of cheese and got eaten by mice. You smile in my face because my teeth are white. I’d be lying to say it doesn’t feel good captured in the disco light. Trapped by the shimmering sheep dreaming of me, jumping through quivering skeletal bones, they make a macarena sound. We all dance alone.
Although the dance floor’s crowded and there’s always somebody tapping your shoulder… I can’t just stand on the wall. My fire rages harder when the weather gets colder. I’m a simple soulful Norseman with itchy fingers. Train whistles enchant, but a city boy with pleats in his pants don’t know how to do the hobo dance.
It goes one leg, two leg — soon got no legs.
Privileged and pouty, I’m a mound of tacky. Trail packs of snacks tackling Mount Whitney… Mount Whitney? But I never even knew her. Hahaha. Watch out for the cougars. In a lean-to tent the walls caved in in a swirl of color and falling apart pixels. I took a picture of my grin because it was as wide as the room it was taken in. I was taken. Just 14 and stupid as heck. The baby was mine, but grew up somebody else’s daughter…
There’s a type of orange that isn’t a color or a fruit, but a little other thing, a mood, a small stain on the fridge when you cleaned all day. A sunset obscured by a fog. It’s the specks of dandelion that never gets blown. The ice cream cone on the sidewalk and the crying baby next to it.
Won’t this train whistle ever stop? It’s like a non-stop Billy Jean Nintendo game shooting clay pigeons out of a sinking ship. I was one loaded quip from spilling my drink. People curse false Gods, I flick off the real one, that jeweled smile parting clouds like a hockey referee.
It was the case of the disappearing coffee table. My first mystery. My first romance. But it was just college and too much to drink so she thought she’d take it out by writing ‘you’re an ass’ in the wood but she spelled it with Z’s because that’s the lasting impression she liked to leave. I see her from time to time but I’d rather not say because her name is in the papers…
How could I be made of such sail but so tired from rowing?
My state is made of so many letters it leaves me scrambled. California. It begins with a coastline and drifts with poppies and sunshine. Her myth is mighty but I know her intimate secrets. To others it’s an angry epithet, but she’s always Cali to me.
I dream lavishly of leaving one languid lyric that repeats in an eternal echo that reaches some shared secret space to melt my membrane maybe. But, baby, if I make you cry along the way it’s because you can feel, it’s real, and in this world of detached stimuli its realness is the only thing you still want, and crave. And when the walls Nick Cave in you can still look for The Cure for different Strokes. But it’s not behind The Doors or The Wallfowers. (Oh, goddamn, I get so close to Bjorg-ing myself sometimes…)
My mama said I’m a ray of sunshine — I’m a death ray of moonshine. But I loved her nevertheless. I love the orange glow. Afternoons with nowhere to go. Drenched in a liquid state, stuck in a bliss unconcerned with the algorithm. I remember hopping back fences now I’m parking valet. I still skip down the hall.
The world is young. And the young are strong. And the old say it’s foolish to believe in such things, but I believe in such things. The ephemeral blessing of not giving a fuck.
Just because you can’t catch it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.
There is a saying somebody says, but I don’t remember and I don’t care. In the dark I’m typing blind. And the pins are already in the doll. So let’s all cough down on sleeves. Oh right. That might have been it.
In the absence of any real recording, please tickle the tip of your finger for me. Tell me a thing you need to whisper. Lick my third eye like a lizard… Another mountain is eaten by humans. Let me ski on the slope of this crumbling civilization >> snapping filtered-fine Chablis decanted symphonic Instagram wine.
I want to do graffiti on my shower curtain.
I want to be the ringleader of my own circus show.
I want to not do I.