“So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth.” – Revelation 3:16
I got to the bookstore about 20 minutes late. I wasn’t even supposed to be in today. Damn that inbred sense of responsibility. I can never get away from it.
Nestled comfortably among the vermin runs at the base of the obelisks to the slaves of capitalism and the gods of cultural production we attract the bare minimum of customers to our rare and used books. Which is fine enough for me considering I’m not paid on commission. Barely paid at all. But what can you expect for just sitting and watching the time pass? Better than an office. At least it’s better than an office.
I unlocked the door, flipped the sign, made a pot of supremely sub par coffee, tried to forget the morning. Drunken ramen and a hangover is no way to start a day. At least not a work day with alarum bells blaring and a schedule that must needs be kept. Derek could have at least given me more than a 40 minute warning. I could still feel a fragment of burst fire siren lodged like a splinter in my brain, forever reminding me that I’m not the one making the rules. God, I hate fucking phones. Coffee in my system, I got down to the business of the day: reading the free Post I had been handed coming out of the subway and making sure nobody stole anything. Like the world still has book thieves. At least it was quiet.
After slogging though the lurid headlines and trying to interest myself in the inane trivialities of Page Six (I thought celebrity lives were supposed to be better than normal lives: sunnier, sparkier, more sure of themselves), I flipped on the 13”. The boss must have been watching over the weekend as the box was still glibly relating the ever rising body count, still questioning why half the world hates freedom in shiny images and inset talking heads smiling and relating death, taxes, and “news”. It was Tuesday and already the world was burning.
How do we handle it? How can we look out into the misery of the world, the futility of all, the vast abyss of existence and still go home carefree like nothing happened? Fuck our husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, vibrators and hand towels as the sludge drips off onto the carpet, silently staining our souls. How did it come to this? How did we let ourselves be buried alive without even a protest? Or even worse, was it ever any better? Is this the way it was really meant to be?
I had considered joining the establishment; buying in. For the safety, the security, the routine; for fitting in and knowing what comes next. Or, I guess for the general ease of living life without the burden of responsibility; same monkey see monkey do cube routine day in day out. It would be so simple. To just give up, let go … if only hope would finally die, if only I could just once and for all give up on all those bullshit pipe dreams and settle.
I didn’t even bother seeing what else was on. I just let it fade to black and forced myself to get up head over to poetry. Maybe Bukowski could cheer me up.
The first customer was a hoarder. I was still flipping through Sifting through Madness when Rick chimed his way through the door. We nodded amicably and he started his usual shuffling circuit. He was in almost daily checking over everything in the recent acquisitions pile, anything I decided to feature as a book that aroused my interest, and always asking if we got in any new first editions. Every time he came in he bought something. Random shit. Fantasy paperbacks, classic works of high modernist fiction, obscure theory texts, big full color art books as long as they had naked ladies in them, but never a first edition. I don’t know why he kept asking after those because despite the selection he never seemed interested in any of the titles. Maybe he just needed something to talk about, someone to talk to and he didn’t know what else to say, how else to break open the silence and let loose one meaningful word. I would probably really like the bastard if he didn’t scare the shit out of me. Bojangling along in ragged clothes, sad desperate eyes, alone in the world save the piles of books that he will never read but buys anyway to fill up the empty spaces; like a funhouse fortune teller – me in 50.
Rick bought a yellowing paperback copy of The Stand and a nearly untouched Discipline and Punish. He was the only company I had all morning.
Suffering from an extreme case of boredom after waking from my noontime nap, I rubbed one out in the well stocked porn and erotica section to lurid tales of young boys seducing their mothers with fifteen inch cocks or the ease with which a surprisingly attractive and well proportioned woman can convince another surprisingly attractive and well proportioned woman to taste her forbidden fruits until the sweet nectar flows. They came illustrated.
Carly called me as I was finishing up and chatted all light and breezy as if last night had never happened. I tried to keep the edge off my voice. It wasn’t that I didn’t forgive her. Well, it probably wasn’t. I hadn’t really gotten around to processing it. It wasn’t an accident. It couldn’t have been. She knew I was going to be at Nocturne’s Alley. Every Monday night, without fail. But … I don’t even know.
I conceded to meet for a late lunch. Most of the customers would show up during their regular lunch breaks and the after work “rush,” so I figured it wouldn’t much matter if I ducked out for an hour or two. And I wasn’t even supposed to be in today, so the boss should just be thankful I subbed for Derek at all. As if he’d even notice.
I can’t believe I agreed to J’aime. We went there once before on some anniversary or another. An early milestone that I impressed myself by reaching and wanted to do something special for her. She was always about that fancy shit: always trying to civilize me, make me classy enough to meet her friends and her parents so that she could brag about me and all the things I was going to accomplish with my art. But I don’t know what could have prompted her to suggest it now. If she wanted to apologize…
It’s not that I can’t handle the elegant life or know which fork to use and not to wipe my face on my sleeve in public but I have a general aversion to the wealthy and even more so to the hangers on of the wealthy. The dirt lip maitre d sneered at walked in, probably wouldn’t have served me if Carly hadn’t followed after – he made no effort not to stare. I have never been able to understand how a guy can get an inordinate sense of entitlement just by working for and around the rich and privileged. What a day.
Carly broke up with me before entrées showed. I had just started nibbling on table bread when she dropped all the usual one liners. Communication breakdown, growing apart, knew this was coming, staying friends, etc. I just stared, blankly. I was going to end up like Rick; lost and alone in a world made for someone else. I guess I should have seen it coming. I guess I should have known that being the girlfriend of a bookstore manager didn’t have the same ring as being the trophy wife of a famous artist. But I didn’t. Maybe she had finally found him, that right stranger, that guy who wouldn’t be an utter disappointment when she hooked her cunt and claws onto his gravy train. The one who would actually live up to the promise he had all those years ago. …
I don’t know why she made me come all the way out here for this. Staying at work would have been better for both of us. I downed my scotch, her martini and left.
Back at the store I grabbed a beer from the mini fridge and tore up the note some concerned citizen had left on the door about being closed during the afternoon. I’m sure he had waited salivating, pounding on the door, begging for just one page, just to smell the spine, the binding glue, just a taste, a small taste. And then writing the note and waiting some more just so he could see me read it and then really tell me off. The worst are filled with a passionate intensity. Like the world is going to end if some bibliophile can’t get his fix. I tried to get back to my reading. I flipped through the channels trying to concentrate. I gave up. Unless one of the two dozen or so customers that showed up before closing actually needed me to sell them something or point in the general direction one of the clearly marked shelves I just sipped my beer and stared at my shoes. When I locked up I had to kick out a couple of fourteen year olds trying to discover their sexuality in public. I miss being a kid.
Normally after closing up I shuffle my way down the street to Chinaski’s, this cozy little bar where they know my name and Lily smiles at me enough that I almost believe that she likes me more than my tips. She even remembers my drinks of choice. The music on the juke is usually solid if slightly skewed to a campy revival of classic rock, songs best left in the coffins they earned in the eighties, and at least one Cash or Springsteen tune every 20 minutes. The clientele is mostly regulars: guys that will leave you alone if you want to be left alone, but an ear to fill when you need to speak your piece. I usually end up being everybody’s sympathetic listener. It gets you free drinks. A few nights a week Chux and Ronnie and Sam (when he can be convinced he’s not as busy as he thinks) will drop by and from there we will tear out into the shadows throw back beers at any number of the questionable establishments of the area. Drinking and laughing about the good old days that we probably never had and definitely can’t remember. Or I would go out with Carly to a nice dinner, or the theater or an art show or maybe just – what does it matter anymore?
Tonight I just wanted to dig a hole and pull the dirt back in over myself. I just wanted to hide away where I could never be found. I just wanted to let my guard down for once.
Heading back towards the subway, a liquor store caught my eye and I figured what the fuck. I hit up the ATM outside taking out a hundred and not even caring about the fiver I was paying for the pleasure. Whatever, I was shopping for one again and no more of that gourmet shit. Well, probably not. And I always feel at home around all that booze. Like an empty cathedral, sacral fonts lining the walls, but no one around to take your confession. Peaceful.
But if I was in the mood for confessing I would have gone to my bar and cried in my beer trying not to realize that Lily was only pretending to listen to me, to all of us. I circled sanctum, noting the details as only a connoisseur of the fermented can. I stood so long in front of the whiskey bottles that the clerk started giving me and the counter equally suspicious glances. Probably hoping he wouldn’t have to use the shotgun that Law & Order had convinced me was under there. World went and got herself all paranoid. Finally settling on a twelve year old bourbon, I paid up and started thinking about where I could go to sample the sweet venom. The cemetery. Why not? It was on the way home.
If you are looking for isolation and solitude there is nothing quite like a graveyard at night. Not for the faint of heart or those afraid of running into demons of the deep, spirits from the ether, ghosts roaming the earth unsated, and teenagers smoking pot. Little more than a small closed park with a more than average stock of bones in the ground, I use the place as an escape, a refuge.
I have my favorite places. One has two massive sixteen foot angels with each with a harsh almost menacing aspect guarding over the grave of six year old twins. Another is this really out of the way marker, a small square foot of marble half covered with weeds and set under a spreading chestnut tree with no names, just that Orwell clip and dates. Here in the darkness are monuments to life and its frailty fairly yelling their stories to the world if anyone took the time to happen by. But no one has time to slow down anymore and so their graves mark their death, cold and alone, in far more poignant ways than likely ever intended.
I picked a desolate tree in a slight depression near the center of the grounds, as far away from the streets and the car horns and the sirens and the barking dogs and the screaming children as you can get in a city this big, this full. I made sure I wasn’t standing on anyone and drew the bourbon from my bag, uncorked it; took a pull of the smooth amber goodness: white oak casks, silky, but with just enough bite to remind you that the proof is up around a hundred and it will kick if you aren’t careful.
He had probably been following me for a while. Since the cashbox or maybe he noted my wallet in the liquor store. There wasn’t much else for an explanation. I was dressed decent, almost stylish, but not like I had money. Not enough to convince a maitre d anyway. If he was looking for a whale he should have gone elsewhere. I figure he was looking for a sure thing. And if he hadn’t stepped on the twig and showed his hand before I got good and drunk, well …
He told me not to fucking move and flashed a knife that showed a chipped edge in the whisper of moonlight peeking through the clouds. I nearly dropped the bottle. I nearly fell. I nearly shit myself. I nearly screamed like a small child with a skinned knee and no hope of being whole again without a comforting kiss from Mom. But I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. I just told him no.
He was already twitchy; throwing looks all around as if he figured he had been followed too. There are sleeper agents everywhere. Someone is always watching the watchers. Unlikely that anyone else was going to be around though. Not on a school night. The kids were all tucked away in their beds, bags of oregano and pencil shavings tucked in their underwear drawers until the weekend. You could tell he wasn’t practiced at this, but even less practiced at someone not tossing over their valuables and crying don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, I’m not ready to die, I have so much reason to live, please please let me live. It wasn’t that I was thinking that I could take him. Or that I figured he wasn’t going to go through with it. It was just that I was sick of this shit.
I wondered if this was it, if this was the end. My thoughts started to stray. To childhood, mostly. To the good times. I started to smile. But instead of an answer from on high, all I got was a blur – a vanished instant of eternity. Something must have spooked him. A stray noise drifting in from the outside, a carrion bird settling into the tree, the gentle murmurs of fate, some other hidden secret of an empty boneyard. But he lunged with his blade and before I had time to think my left arm was bleeding and my bourbon was all over both of us, the shattered bottle blanketing the soft grass. I was panting, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Senses sharper, more fully alive than I have ever been. He wasn’t moving.
I stood staring into the darkness immobile, looking anywhere but his face with its twisted snarl of pain, anger, innocence, and confusion. He was only a kid, probably no more than 17, probably less. I closed my eyes and he was there, asking why. But he wasn’t after my money anymore. I leaned against the tree, slid to the cold earth, dialed 911, and waited for the thunder.
I had never killed a man.
I had never killed a man. It was emptier than I expected. Cold, hollow. Boring, almost. Exhaustion washed over me. The silence rang in my ears. Sigh, “Fuck.”
The N lurches along in the stifling darkness mumbling platitudes to the ailing tracks, the scree and detritus of an abandoned humanity. Desperate and alone, we hide behind newspapers, ipods, and blank faces jarring with over-thought ensembles silently mouthing prayers for sunlight, weekends, escape velocity. We are the seething masses of mankind gone in the teeth and like so much back alley trash just being pushed idly to and fro by the shopkeep's stoned stepson.
Like a live action tale of human misery: no sleeping beggars or fire breathing preachers on this car, no young lovers in the obvious bloom of passion being carried along to their next joyous adventure, nothing to draw us out of ourselves and bring the sneer to our lips at the inconvenience, the gall, the greener grass we don't really believe in. Just dull, listless eyes that can almost see the ghostly shackles; keeping us complacent, defeated. The only thing that keeps us plodding along is the vague notion of a destination and the numb cant: it could be worse.
As we finally emerge into the abysmal daylight out on the bridge, a collective shudder makes its way around the car. We put on shades, pull down hats, turn from the windows in fear and anger only to turn back. The illusion of fresh air and freedom brightens some, starting wistfully over the water towards the shining pinnacles of the financial district, the ocean, that vast emptiness that is never empty enough, never free enough; just cold, bitter, and mocking. But mostly we crumble, wanting it all to be over. The trip, the train ride, everything. Mostly we just want hope to finally surrender, lie down, and die so that we can let go, so that we can give up.
And we plunge back into the darkness.
He remembered the rabbit. That was in the past, though. And there was nothing that could be done. He was out of toothpaste. That would have to be remedied. He heard a jackhammer in the distance. Probably along 4th. Maybe two blocks down. He wondered if that would affect traffic. Then he wondered how that could affect him. Then he thought about toothpaste again. He was still out.
In his youth he had dreamed of the ocean. The coastline with the rocks and the waves hitting the cliffs and the repetition. He had thought that one day he would find himself there. That he would sit in the sand and that he would wait. Staring out. Thinking. Remembering. He remembered the rabbit.
It was going to snow today. His umbrella was broken but you don’t use an umbrella for snow. Not really. He wondered if he should buy a raincoat. For later. After the snow. When it would rain. In the spring. He hadn’t needed one back home. But it was different here.
He forgot to look at the clock but remembered to close the gate in the fence. And he remembered the rabbit.
He remembered the rabbit. He remembered growing up in the green lawns and fenced off backyards of the suburbs of
In the shower he wondered what brought the memory back. Why a rabbit? Why that rabbit? Why not the rabbit his friend had in college that he used to pick up chicks (better than a puppy, even)? The dream was fading with the steam, fogging up his mind, the mirror. It was the trace of something lost in the recesses of his subconscious brought to light by random occurrence; maybe last night someone had said something about a cute little bunny. He didn’t remember. That wasn’t the sort of thing that stayed with him. He liked words, the ways they stuck together or drifted apart. But only his words and the words he could pin down on paper. He could never really get a handle on other people’s words. They just drifted past, like a leaf on a river headed for the ocean only to be ravaged, thrashed on the cliffs of the rocky coastline. So close to freedom, so close to oblivion, so close.
He was out of toothpaste. He would have to remember to buy some. And maybe some incense. Sandalwood to remind him of all those Buddhist temples that he visited in
He came up from the subway and could tell by the puddles on the stairs that he should have looked at the forecast. It was raining and his umbrella was still at home in the entryway with his shoes. He considered buying a new one. Five dollars was not a terrible price to pay to keep from being soaked. He didn’t even have a hat on. He wondered whatever happened to his raincoat. The one that he had in college. It was probably with the things he lost in the fraternity attic. The comforter and the laundry bag and the pillow. He still didn’t know how they could have been lost in a closed space so small. There was nowhere for them to hide. And there would have been no reason to steal them.
The air smelled cold. Maybe the downpour would stop and it would snow. He didn’t hold out much hope. It would probably just hail. No five dollar umbrella could save him from a rock fight with heaven. He was tired of waiting. He was tired of his indecision. He stepped out from under the awning, gently into the maelstrom. The rain was bitter, harsh. Like an angry mother, scrubbing away his sins. Leaving the skin red and raw.
He passed an abandoned jackhammer keeping sorry company with a couple bent orange cones and a torn up corner of the street. A shiver went down his spine and he felt even more alone.
He remembered the rabbit. The grass was long and calming with a sense of drifting possibility. She was there with him, holding him, whispering. The sun was out but it didn’t hurt his eyes like normal. Everything was aligned. Everything made sense. He remembered the alarm clock.
Cliffs of snow. He remembered that there were cliffs of snow. He did not remember why. He had grown silent. With the shuffling of the years, the soft decay, that sweet good night. He had grown silent. Lost. Like a raincoat abandoned on the desolate coast of a forgotten sea. Left behind. Like the rabbit. He remembered the rabbit.
It had been a sunny day. He had worn sunglasses. The ones that he had sat on and the ear piece was a little loose and they were a little crooked on his face but that still looked cool. He thought they still looked cool. They had coke in the house and he had one. Sitting in the backyard was not a normal occurrence for him. They would want him to play. And he did not like the other kids. Perhaps he did not like other people. He was not yet certain. He stayed on his side of the fence. They didn’t ask him to play. They didn’t even speak to him. They were too busy with the rabbit.
The rum was not pleasant. But neither was morning. One does as one must. He opened a new tube of toothpaste. Cinnamon. He hated cinnamon. He should have remembered to pay more attention. But he never could. It was not his way. And he had grown tired of trying to change his ways. It never worked. It never helped. He was still alone. He brushed his teeth with red paint. His life hurt. He wondered if he would die soon. Like the rabbit.
/ a love sonnet (a lament sung offkey… out of sync)
sing to the spaces the betweennesses the veiled echoes of a flickering light in the distance: offers of false promises of home of hope and you run eyes closed through the meadows to the precipice – but I have given up running hope of escape velocity or your sweet entropy (and) the enveloping velvet void forgetfulness offers only comedy now dark matter – we were so much better once (so much more: so young)
screaming tires busting glass the painful
let me see her
her cigarettes still idle in the ashtray no smoke curling towards the ceiling commingling with the incense the trace of memory to eddy through the air in withering mystic clouds whorls of desperation and longing bound to some infernal dictum not prepared for what would happen for the future for death (Death or The End.) I wasn’t ready&the Throne was still empty
ain’t no sunshine; an unnamed priestess of the deep night called forth from my shadows from my longing from hiding beyond the empty blank tomorrows where all things come to pass (we are those who sit in judgment, silent screams writ upon our faces) in with and of (And I shall be made righteous And I shall sit by the left hand of the almighty And yea though I walk in shadow I shall be the vengeance And the wrath And the fury Of the Lord And his peace Shall cover the earth In blood) a. près. moi.
no one left to remember us (you&me / just me) dear god AMY!!! WHY???!!!???
I always come back to the boat
sitting alone again thinking about you waiting wondering if I am too far behind to ever find the light of day dreaming about our sunny beaches drinking in the shade napping in the hammock no deeds to do no promises to keep; dappled and drowsy a boat, but rootless, no anchor, no sails, no port (in the storm) like a leaf upon the wind slave to the current but who isn’t laughter called: and you dreamed of me
- Well, there’s no easy way for me to say this …
- Where is she?
- It’s not …
- Where is she?
- No, you can’t …
- … there’s nothing …
And bloodfire rent the walls took up my sword my warhammer of fate justice rage burning insanity why won't you just let me see & the world came crashing down torn down from the heavens the mountains the peaks and valleys and troughs and insignificant moments of her life that I can't forget and
- LET ME FUCKING SEE HER!
there’s this idea an idea about a boat – an empty tombstone marking a ditch by the side (of the road) passed for absurd I got seasick once
swallowing your masthead, ink dribbling down my chin; dare I venture into this surreal wasteland screaming obscenities at vacant lots the wall falling to pieces peaces peesez the center cannot hold mere anarchy (the lynchpin) is lost alone and somehow it has to something to do with my childish plays at amusement my childhood my youthful innocence innocents the best days are first to flee (gather ye rosebuds): Yes, I dare.
Adrift. (any port in the)
Suffering is Beautiful -- life is boredom is getting by is keeping busy is the routine all over again same shit same day same same same (suffering is easy) It took away my mind my soul my will to live but hope&Death is the only true freedom and He keeps that chainlink grip so damn tight and to just let go … not even with a good bit of rope.
before you there was nothing nothing until you found me lost reborn
(in your smile)
lying there frozen slab blue skinned nothing I broke
(just the pieces of / raining down on)
there’s no easy
in the gloom the gloaming the depths of the human soul flat made clean free from panic in offerings made to the lord mouthing our prayers of wrath anger confusion contrition debased and Confess (you must always confess) but it was not my fault why? why her? why this? why now? the soundless echoes deafen it was not my fault
- there's nothing left you don't want to remember her like this no one should have to where are you going you can't go in there
- (daggers and ice)
we developed fast devolved faster fell into the infinite indefinite laughing drinking inky blueblack oblivion oblivious blankfaced saints of tomorrowmorrow and never really caring if we never woke if we never got back if it was only ever just us but that was so long ago and I know what pain means now (suffering is beautiful)
the thought was that with the sunshiny picnics and modern arts tours de force aimless hand in hand wanderings down shady avenues cool drinks sweating over our laughing fingers still remembering still longing to renew the touch the caress the would leave us with and lead us to the moment that you would save me; we would drop anchor go to ground shelter from the coming maelstrom (if it lasted forever I know) but I brought you into this tempest instead (you became the gentle grey eyes of my hurricane)
- Hey, you wanna get out of here?
- Yeah (born anew in every smile)
jackknife fishtail fireball
the words stall in their flow like clotting blood from a hatchet wound we run on empty useless cogs in a machine that broke down a long and ancient road and beyond caring we are still dying for it still paying the price for goods(five easy payments)we never received -- lost in transition translation lost and we have no homes to go back to nothing left but to die bleed out in a party laughing and drunk and waiting for the end too damn scared to pull the trigger but why won’t you come back&save me?
it was my car I should have been there I should have (it was not my …)
there’s noisy (way to) stay this (floodtide tsunami of unrequited rage against the fate against the brooding nihilism that won’t consume just mock and I will follow you into)
a whiskey tour of the world (shot after shot of his&hers rotgut alltomyself): the screams wake me in the night and still alone I know not how to dispel the darkness just waiting for you to come back to me come back please just a glimpse a whiff of what the earth has bitterly forgotten and I know you never will because that part of me is dead and you were left so far far behind the tears would flow like the blood like the wine like the life leaking from my veins but I don’t know how never did and laughter never fully covers the pain the paint the lifeless eyes like glass balls of empty oceans dry cracked sea beds staring back at the broken mirror wondering why they can’t see anything either but it gets better right? I’m coming
the Throne has always been empty but we kept on looking to the sky for answers waiting until the voices in our heads said that our prayers were answered with a resounding ‘no! fuck off and leave Me be, up here it’s still Day Seven’ never realizing that we could tell ourselves the opposite and feel much better about the same nothing (it never meant anything, did it? were You ever even watching?)
… warning for … blizzard conditions and … five car pileup on I- …
a fist raised against the dying indignities of my ticking timebomb soul you have taken so much but not this never this and though I never see it and only when the night falls and the beer flows and the evil seeps in do my eyes open with that devil gleam ready for some righteous fury vengeance for the lord and the long empty hallways of my lives a smile is a smile is what takes me away and damn but you should be scared of me now --
-- there's no one left to blame so never mind the darkness
give in up over the ghost lose hope if only I lose could lose hope if only hope would finally curl up and (but the pain is all I have left of you) there’s nothing left and that semi
God but the anger consumes me kept so deep hidden in the mustard gas trenches of my soul no one has ever seen my eyes my visage marred overcome by the vast fury of life unrequited nothing to fear nothing to love nothing to see here and so left alone to his desperate devices the demon keeps to the shadows smiling and biding his damn time for the break down the silence the shattered mirror crisis that will tear me to pieces and let him come screaming to the placid surface of my expressionless face
the whetstone was a good idea (noisy weighted sadist)
blood in the whiskey / ink in my veins
a blueblack bruise staining transgressing the softspoken lines of your fresh&clean sheet of notebook heavens sent escapism never enough but onelastfullstop. at a time like this / no timelife this / no time left is
miserable failure at life and everything else besides I can only go to sleep knowing that its not going to get better so one more whiskey for the show and one more show for the night and one more goodnight before you leave me just give me one more moment alone with my whiskey and my nightmares but its no different than it ever was change is still just an illusion so drink up, Johnny; its going to be a long cold night.
some things burn better than others dancing blue flames black hearts white tips a red lighter without smoke where there’s fire there’s (circling the drain misery runs cold too cold to come out of blue ink scattered across the page across my crumbling bed across my crumbling life wasteland oh to be teenaged again and fix all those petty simple careless mistakes) (life almost looks like art but without the point or the inherent beauty) and (keep scribbling, assholes we’ll reach the monster one of these days and then by god and snicker snack) just another wayward traveler in the brokedown palace (a sad eyed angel clipped wings stained robes)
running from towards Death broken down falling laughter hits hard callous rings false and I go it alone (Again) we keep the lights off to hide our faces can’t let it be seen the dead unblinking eyes staring back into the mists myth shadows of my cobwebbed mind no stakes no steaks staked to the empty barren earth going to freeze tonight likely going to die -- voices echo hollow like deserted hallways to nowhere all the doors are locked all the windows are broken and I have been blinded lost and left to fend for myself among the beasts of the wild oh dear lord Deer Lord it’s coming…
lukewarm the rogue a man (gone but) a nothing a no one a nowhere man please listen you don’t know but neither do you the current state of affairs state in affairs stated affairs the current against the current always against the wall shoot me now, I’m ready
the vagaries of drink (
we could call it sadness or inexpressible rage at the indecencies of mankind sweet jesus but the time never comes to play on blues play on / would will myself into slow decay bury me in that pinewood box next to you in the shade of the chestnut but time oh time / something deep inside of my bubbling below the surface screaming in dreams or really just nudging whispering to the splinters in my brain driving me on towards something something that never speaks its name but hides right there below the murky surface of the dingy mud puddle of my life
pass the pitcher pour the beer drink up of life and indignity we are so much less than we used to be so much less than we should be than we could be as the sun sets on the tragedies we keep laughing along to: Puck, sing the song sweeter this time I want to cry again! I want to weep!
the blade cuts deep but I can’t feel it or anything anymore as I drift idly
by watching my life unfold past me was I supposed to be doing something as the blood trickles down and mixed with the whiskey with the ink with the last will and testament of a man gone down a ravaged poem to life to a woman to laughing at the devil right before he takes it all away / one more shot
) in the wayward margins
reborn in your smile