bright lights, loud noises

I hear the heaters come on, I hear the water pipes and I hear the footsteps

there wasn't much to do so I cooked a chicken thigh in broth and then went to bed don't really go the bar anymore they simply refuse to hire anything good to look at and the conversation is dull and predictable and the bartender reaches around the bar back slicing key limes "can I get a card to run?" a tattoo on her arm for every 5 guys she's fucked "sure…sure.."

but I'm not in the business of writing reviews, good or bad,

don't know what my business is,

just pissing on the ashes of a campfire

tying my shoelaces mother fucking tight

we push ourselves farther towards the edge

watching the humorless and the tragic sail right past us and over and down

we share a couch, a box of cereal, a lifestyle

I may not be alive like she is alive

my eyes may sit deep in my head and i sit straight in the wind while she bends

and she bends far,

you are fantastic and jealous,

your soul can take serious damage from a fastfood cashier,

this year I made my first new year’s resolution in years and it’s simply to walk more

and it’s not for health reasons or anything like that it’s more for reasons of the soul–

if you can afford to believe in anything like that.

when I was younger I would walk anywhere 3 or 4 miles was no big deal

people thought I was a freak

but it felt good

the firm ground under the soles of your feet

I don’t throw words like intoxicating out there much

but it was

and though I like cars

I think I’ve realized that it’s isolating and suffocating

like living with ear plugs in

I think we cheat ourselves in a lot of ways

you weren’t homeless but you wanted to be

I remember driving with you downtown,

“mama, you been on my mind” came on the car stereo and you said you’d never heard anything like it before you said it sounded so sad, like a sad old man sitting on the edge of his bed

I agreed, it did sound like that

“memphis” by chuck berry played on the jukebox we sat outside with coffee we got away for a few hours it was good luck

I ask the waitress if she can break a 50, like I’m some kind of big timer,

but it’s just left over from a good evening at the sports book, months ago

“yes sir!” she says with a bored look in her eyes

I finish the last bit of toast and coffee,

it feels like everything is screaming for me to be dissatisfied but I can’t do it.

I push the door open the pleasant sound of the bell tied to the handle

I think about how it would be nice to have a girl with me someone to take to the used book store

browse eastern philosophy, dog-eared science fiction, burned out best sellers, fishing almanacs, sumerian diets…

I skip the book store, turn off the football on the radio

there’s a restaurant or bar by the traffic light, they’ve got a patio and as I roll to a stop I hear some kid singing his ass off

they’ve got a stack of logs by the gate and a small fire

the glasses on the table shine and everyone looks very involved and kind

I see the chalkboard they’ve put up as a menu “oysters and beer”

the snow had covered the

barn

so that no one could enter.

we stood waist-deep in the snow poking at a

frozen buzzard

with a stick and

you hid your tattoos from me because you said a tattooed life is a patterned life

insecure and buried in wishes and memories

but listen,

it works for you

it looks good on you

the planets revolve around you

etc…

and whoever has you

I hope they know what to do with you

in our lifetime the novel may die, it may already be dead

they may say that once a great art form existed, a series of characters printed on paper that when viewed by the trained human eye produced a series of reactions in the neocortex triggering emotion, wisdom, and entertainment,

we were left in the hallway on the evening of the casting call

they gave us one look up and down and said "next time, kids"

and it wasn't a shock it was an affirmation

so we finished what was left in the coffee pot and walked out,

onto the street

a double bill of failure,

unfit for service,

now that my heart cannot do what it used to

I find myself thinking about the youthful days that burned brightly, that now lay bare, like matches around my chair in the room where I type

the days when you spun dizzy, drunk in our first apartments

and now I ask at your doorstep if you think that we could make it at another time together, maybe when we are different, more agreeable people and you shake your head then your umbrella

and I lean in

and lean in,

our lips finally brushing

a cat moves out in the rain looking for a dry place

a car honks

and the thunder works well

and I get out of there,

I walk, I drive, I walk, catch a ride to the shore

and

I went out to get a book which is a pain in the ass because there is about 1 bookstore left in town

I saw people setting up tents in front of an electronics store, they wanted what the people had inside

the sky was pink and there were birds, they would explode suddenly from the trees, in a cascade of shadows,

the bartender, she has tattoos up and down her arms it reminds me of a mattress print

and if you make it over I have lemons and whiskey which I am sure you can mix much better than me

and outside my window I can see the traffic of a famous highway

I recognize the models of the cars

I think about my own times on that highway and I feel real affection

real sadness

and then night falls