Crow Witch Detective Agency

I have a little game for you! Are these titles for a.) Charles Bukowski's poetry collections OR b.) Fall Out Boy songs? I promise you there's five of each on the list: 

Love Is a Dog from Hell

Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes 

The People Look Like Flowers At Last

Of All the Gin Joints in All the World

You're Crashing, but You're No Wave

My Heart Is the Worst Kind of Weapon

The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills

You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense

I've Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth 

Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit

I have never liked spring per se. The sudden sun is merciless on all the dust and dried skin. Melting snow leaves in its wake rifts of gravel, candy papers and shit, and my throat is sore all the time. But I like the feeling of life moving forward. It’s like the end of April always pries my chilled fingers off everything I’ve held onto for too long and pushes me back-first into the green miracle of summer. “See?” it says with the kind of coldness only beautiful women can master, “”There was life here all along. You tend to forget.”

It was in April I’d once read for my university entrance exams. In April my lover of ten years left me for his new acquaintance. In April I defended my doctoral dissertation and booked one-way tickets to the other side of the world. April, for me, always ends in an emptiness that is at once vast and miraculous and terrifying like the sea or the sky. And there is nothing I can say to refuse it.