'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