He didn’t run away from home
until he was sixteen. That was just because
there weren’t any girls from Chicago who wanted
to tear him apart with perfect London werewolf teeth.

This probably doesn’t make sense
in modern times, but back then
falling in love was as simple as taking up smoking
and paying big cash money to get a four-day vacation
at the local bug house.

All his money went into batteries for the CD player,
a round-trip bus ticket and calling cards that charged
an hour for every ten minutes.

All his dreams for that matter were turned over
to stay awake and remember the old country houses that popped up
every few miles and probably wouldn’t be standing
on the long ride back home.

Because this trip could only end in disaster.
It could only be a matter of time before he took
a Buster Keaton tumble down the stairs because he was paying
more attention to the piece of his face in her hands
than whether or not he was breathing comfortably on steady ground.

It wasn’t going to take long
for the protest singers musicians in Washington D.C.
to realize his shoes were worth a whole fifteen dollars.

And eventually
an ex-boyfriend was going to come back
from limbo and try to sell him on walking away
like a gentleman.

He would bring a bunch of friends
and try his damnedest to send that taxi cab
over the top and into the parade that moved across
the downtown like an ocean that’s sick of being beautiful.

These things happen,
and this young man had only just started
to figure that out for himself.

Still he went out of his way to dress well.
He wrote frequently and knew that three drinks
would get him listening instead of talking.

Four drinks would have him looking
for a priceless engagement ring
at a hopeless South Carolina flea market
that felt like Reno on that one unbelievable night.

In Cleveland
he saw a gaunt face with a leather jacket
and a beer gut. On his arm was an overweight film critic
who had been an aging whore long before she dropped out
of college to join the circus.

She screamed at the gaunt face,
but he didn’t seem to be listening.

At sixteen
he didn’t think much of them at the time.

He believed he could catch anyone if he planned it right.
He thought two people could have one song and not be assholes.

01/16/2011

Posted on 01/16/2011
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