after J. Cash - "Guess Things Happen That Way"
I've been thinking
one headlight out
is no way to go.
I've been thinking
it'd be nice
to split a tab,
but there's a little too much snow.
I've been thinking
there ain't much space in this basement,
but we'll grow.
Things get silly. Things
get old and I can't be
that girl to lean on.
I don't like it. Black eye socket.
I don't like it, but I guess things
happen that way.
original works of parts
Question Marks 3
Dear Dr. B.,
Sometimes I am spectacularly depressed. Sometimes
I am spectacularly enthused. Most times
I am spectacularly surprised,
genuinely so,
that I am still alive, and in that third moment
I am reminded that I
wouldn't be where I am without you. Still managing,
in the purest sense of number crunch and asset allocation.
I am an island now. By
choice I like to think. The helping hands. Go figure. I
thought of a joke though,
remember you said I could
talk to you again if I thought of one:
Two vaginas walk into a bar.
The first girl says "I'll take a vodka and rossi."
The second girl says "I'll have what she's having, bourbon over."
The bartender says "on the same tab?"
He hands the bartender two cards and says "no."
I've been managing. Life has been good
from the standpoint of
statistics. It's been rough as all get out
from the standpoint of
everything else. Things not metric, less magic.
Do you want a receipt, but I'm working. Trying real
hard to take care of myself and not decouple from society
because I
can blink my eye and be so far away from where I need to be.
The voices have been loud, but I'm putting in a lot.
The outcomes are what and it's been paying
off, bit by bit, though I still slip and
get blindsided from time to time (it's exhausting being on guard so
much).
Anyway, I think I love you, but mostly I want to tell you that I'm
still not dead yet.
Thanks so much,
Mr. D.
The Sea on His Shoulder
"You haven't been smoking crack, have you?"
"That's a stupid question." If body bags came in green
the seat covers would be stitched from them.
Fingering the seams is a fine way to pass time
when conversation lulls.
To seem off is one thing. To be is another.
"Sometimes, I don't know," his left eye says. His right
asks to be invited, when the trees are singing,
the sky is stiff, and sound rings like smoke
against closed windows and doors and
pools, boredom.
The sun is blinking slower. Lazy clocked,
minutes yawning in between the upstretched arms
of cloud banks beyond the bar window seats.
Her hair is windblown, asking about
Jeanette and closed systems.
The night crowds
are hard, if she could be easy. Her hair stinks
from across the table. Sweat through pillows and
vending machine cakes. Her finger spins
the car key ring. "It's Friday, dummy."
He remembers the forecast
for snow
that won't stick. Flag a waiter, or walk up.
"Whatever works." He touches a shot glass to her bottle
empty. Her car isn't going to drive itself.
Eye contact is one hell of a drug,
given appropriate time. The walk outside
is amazing to taste. The air is fireplace and sunglass optional.
He offers a cigarette, but never could get her on the habit.
"You still gay?"
"Something like that." Look back to where.
The bar is so much smaller on its face. "You?"
The hood of a car is a poor place to sit,
especially when it is misted in sun shower rain drops.
"Something like that.
Sometimes I don't know." The lucky flip policy is loose.
She still does not smoke, though her skin blazes
in the slanted light against the too busy sky.
The engine turns over easily.
"Let's go get you right?" Her smile is a billion watts. Her nod
so much more.
"That's a stupid question." If body bags came in green
the seat covers would be stitched from them.
Fingering the seams is a fine way to pass time
when conversation lulls.
To seem off is one thing. To be is another.
"Sometimes, I don't know," his left eye says. His right
asks to be invited, when the trees are singing,
the sky is stiff, and sound rings like smoke
against closed windows and doors and
pools, boredom.
The sun is blinking slower. Lazy clocked,
minutes yawning in between the upstretched arms
of cloud banks beyond the bar window seats.
Her hair is windblown, asking about
Jeanette and closed systems.
The night crowds
are hard, if she could be easy. Her hair stinks
from across the table. Sweat through pillows and
vending machine cakes. Her finger spins
the car key ring. "It's Friday, dummy."
He remembers the forecast
for snow
that won't stick. Flag a waiter, or walk up.
"Whatever works." He touches a shot glass to her bottle
empty. Her car isn't going to drive itself.
Eye contact is one hell of a drug,
given appropriate time. The walk outside
is amazing to taste. The air is fireplace and sunglass optional.
He offers a cigarette, but never could get her on the habit.
"You still gay?"
"Something like that." Look back to where.
The bar is so much smaller on its face. "You?"
The hood of a car is a poor place to sit,
especially when it is misted in sun shower rain drops.
"Something like that.
Sometimes I don't know." The lucky flip policy is loose.
She still does not smoke, though her skin blazes
in the slanted light against the too busy sky.
The engine turns over easily.
"Let's go get you right?" Her smile is a billion watts. Her nod
so much more.
Simply Put
I get sad when you leave.
The why part is
silly, and I know it.
I get sad when you leave.
I made you a necklace
out of boiled chicken bones.
Wear it
or don't. I'll understand.
Wear it
for now and then,
where I can't see you.
Do what we will.
The why part is
silly, and I know it.
I get sad when you leave.
I made you a necklace
out of boiled chicken bones.
Wear it
or don't. I'll understand.
Wear it
for now and then,
where I can't see you.
Do what we will.
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