'When a girl takes off her sunglasses, I can hear her better.'
-Hugh Prather, Notes to Myself
It's getting hard to write. The words don't
come in floods anymore; a boring
sober sputtering is all I muster (or mutter). So take me back to
Brooklyn, give me my walking hat and my
flask, and I'll spin you
tales you'd love to believe that even I know aren't true.
I haven't felt this
level in so long that I have little to say about it. I need a change, maybe my
name. Get me back on
the train, your face. It's all I see here, between the tracks, between the lines, the
long steel lines to Brooklyn. All
glass and chrome is what I need,
cement and grime, not grass dying for want of some taste of rain. The pain I do not feel is
what I need to spin these tales. I can't complain, so I'm left with little to say.
this little middle finger is for you.
Do not touch me tonight.
I am funky.
A full day's work's sweat
clings crusty to my body.
I live in a fairy tale
With
some awfully nice people.