Would you taste a bit
of this
tea; we have many
hours
to go before our
trip ends
and then, once again, you may sleep.
The
strong man tells me you've
got
muscles underneath that
bone--
What did you have to do to impress him?
That's a joke, son.
I can hear on your
voicemail--your
speaker
is far
too loud--that you've been
rejected
again. That sucks.
Hard part of life.
I would, man. I would give every bit.
You get depressed when you
drive through
ritzy neighborhoods, don't you? You know
you'll never be able to have one
of those for your
wife and
kids--Just one?
She's
beautiful. I've seen some
ugly
before, heads
misshappen and just plain
funky. But that's neither here nor there.
The beautiful home is myth. Every home
has
dust in the corners,
spiders sneaking in
between the
plastic slats of your computer monitor.
True story: once had a
rat living in my
computer,
fit right through one of those expansion slots without
a cover. Those chips get warm, I
imagine. I would.
People ask why I don't write poetry--I can't
call
myself a
poet, a pretentious
ass, talking
about feelings when there's so many more
real things
worth talking about that we can all know.
I
ain't never been interested in feelings. I got
'em, I'm sure, but I'd drop them all and
devote
myself to
pain just to make her
happy.
You gonna drink that?