a few years back
not recalling exactly when
within Halloween's fiery hearth
an acrylic moon hung all
jacked up on the right
suburban roads paved in euphoric evening
sidling windward
down residential streets to a main st. pub
to be with myself
nothing had me
in its fervent grip
clutching paper napkins
swaddled in
fluorescent orange orangutang fissures
pumpkin ornaments
drearily disheveled
spread out cross
the local whiskey counter
six pack family station wagon imagery
this location
this wretched county
kindled my bitten fingernails
along crescent full-time noons
it all led up to melancholic memories
of you in Brooklyn
being read Faulkner
by a middle-aged man in khakis
in some art village gallery
where poor bohemians waste all
their time and money
attempting to impress the impressionable
I walked home flattened
discouraged
throwing up imported
beer on
the dying geraniums
behind your mother's
old nail salon
back at my apartment
I recalled
why exactly
you
moved to Brooklyn
Monday, April 21, 2014
Friday, April 4, 2014
retrospective seasons
afternoon presented itself innocuously at one point in time
golden days scattered into seasons
a frivolous sun settled down upon
swaying trees gently pressing against an auburn sky
something happened to me
memories came crashing down
as decade old crystalline chandeliers in
drunken barroom brawls
artificial light radiated sharply
once in each others presence
til a familiar gasoline burnt down
continuing running on decrepit fumes
much too long
your nose has been running lately
but where's it going?
where it all goes
down the human waste-pipe of intellectual futility
our past is as an old rustic shoebox
desolated through bland epochs of pointless history
among sordid
personal pathos
and embarrassing marketing logos
Friday night on the blanched hems of the city
you, the bathtub boy and an inexpensive bottle of plastic gin
run-on mornings in cheap motels
surrounding nightly phone calls
to a middle-aged woman in Massachusettes
that lectures you
"learn to control your emotions before they control you,
find a way to curb your lust and desire
before you wake up in the local holding tank
with the gutter queers you know all too well"
My youth has faded beyond any possible recognition plus
what's the point of holding on to it?
When all you got anymore is all you have learned
to wake up every morning and try not to kill anyone
including yourself
golden days scattered into seasons
a frivolous sun settled down upon
swaying trees gently pressing against an auburn sky
something happened to me
memories came crashing down
as decade old crystalline chandeliers in
drunken barroom brawls
artificial light radiated sharply
once in each others presence
til a familiar gasoline burnt down
continuing running on decrepit fumes
much too long
your nose has been running lately
but where's it going?
where it all goes
down the human waste-pipe of intellectual futility
our past is as an old rustic shoebox
desolated through bland epochs of pointless history
among sordid
personal pathos
and embarrassing marketing logos
Friday night on the blanched hems of the city
you, the bathtub boy and an inexpensive bottle of plastic gin
run-on mornings in cheap motels
surrounding nightly phone calls
to a middle-aged woman in Massachusettes
that lectures you
"learn to control your emotions before they control you,
find a way to curb your lust and desire
before you wake up in the local holding tank
with the gutter queers you know all too well"
My youth has faded beyond any possible recognition plus
what's the point of holding on to it?
When all you got anymore is all you have learned
to wake up every morning and try not to kill anyone
including yourself
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