tough night,
so close to closure.
so far from plastered parrots
and beauty queens.
third round of the blood ballet.
final round, indeed
new rivers, I'll let ya know.
make my mother proud.
rifle sky, fire like no other.
I can't sleep with this knowledge.
the carbonaton in my beer is assuring me that everything is different now.
this part of my life is over.
none of us can help it.
the bed will move that morning
and I will be closing books.
it was a good song;
it might be a novel.
it's now a thought on my mind
while I simply and silently ride a train.
in.
black machines called cars by most
and arms by me, arms with flags;
diamonds cut, in some Paris, without me.
writing at a new airport tavern desk.
my favorite marching band place.
the cadences are charlie boy not going to war.
the canvas is covered in coyote blood.
sing songs.
for the long.
for the girls with my house keys.
for all the girls who know all the lyrics by heart.
I am a terrible person.
I am trying to repent.
but busy Boston-based voices at bars west on wednesdays
leave laid out mud rifles for me to shoot.
take scrutiny.
ready. bullseye.
out front, new.
bold submarine.
dead see.
don't ignore me, uniform.
don't ignore me, friend.
making oats with prohibiton and a bikini.
and a grey scarf that is still being warm and right now getting rained on, lightly.
I leave and I write.
later, I read one of her favorite books.
pathetic, I guess.
but not an evil parascope.
left with just the clothes on my back.
yes there are times we live for somebody else.
I need a cigarette and a bump.