As I walk through a shopper center
That houses a liquor store,
An army recruitment office,
And a funeral home.
Without Freud
But with a quivering psychic
Antennae pointed towards death,
The March through the parking lot
Is one of laughing at life.
In one spot
There is a grouping
Of empty bottles;
Cognac and Mike's Hard Lemonade,
Left from some last night.
In another world,
A shirtless, sculpted
Jogged runs by,
His enviously beautiful chest
Heaving in humid rhythm.
My day is better
Than yesterday,
My this week Better than my last,
Because I am still here,
writing in my mind, singing.
I have an appointment
That might as well be in Samarra,
And it is important
But here I am romanticizing
The epistemology of loss.
That may be
What makes me interesting;
Not the poems or the past,
But the burden of regret,
And love leaving.
Each step,
Avoiding cracks in concrete,
I force myself
To think and plot,
Chronically and pathological.
Behind a Taco Bell,
I check my phone,
Realize I am late…For everything…
So I Go back
and take a photo with a hobo.
There are so many moments
In my life
I wish I could leave
In a parking lot
In a ghetto.
A severed wing of a pigeon
Is in the gutter
In front of a hobby store
Where I buy a water
Using a debit card.
Each week we wish,
Blaming in between dreaming
Other lonely people in neon cities,
There are so many moments
In my life
I wish I could leave
In a parking lot
In a ghetto.
A severed wing of a pigeon
Is in the gutter
In front of a hobby store
Where I buy a water
Using a debit card.
Each week we wish,
Blaming in between dreaming
Other lonely people in neon cities,
making excuses for why
pasts are sometimes futures.