There was that one time
I slipped a pair of brass knuckles into the left pocket
of my jacket. I had gotten my head around some bad anxiety medication
and feared the worst of crowds that moved, talked and made love
in public much, much too quickly.

No one ever approached me. I took a long bath in vodka I didn’t pay for.
I also changed my religion, slipped into a dress for laughs, hit on a college kid in a Batgirl mask
and then left to stagger through the Richmond, VA streets and ask cops
if they could give me a lift to the nearest view of the Pacific Ocean.

In other words I once again fulfilled
the expectations of people who don’t expect anything
of me to begin with.

It’s childish, but it passes the time
and keeps me awake. I don’t trust the figures that stand
in high-definition against the blurry visual disasters in my dreams.

They’re always trying to get me to come closer.
They speak so clearly, I wake up thinking they could be waiting
in my kitchen for coffee, cigarettes and a supernova of violence
and information that leaves me scrambling to find just one person
who believes that I’m essentially a decent person and worth saving.

If they also want to say I’m a good enough entertainer,
then that’s fine, too.

Since 1998
I’ve been spreading myself thin across thirty-six states
and about that many fantastic theories on possibility.

When things went to hell in 2002
I built a movie theater in the attic and learned
from the best of the one-sided ghosts how an honest man
will confess everything and take whatever body blows
are due to him.

Right now I’ve only admitted to just enough
that I can leave town whenever I want
and with only a little bit of trouble.

Of course there’s always going to be more.
I don’t think I could ever live long enough
to give the proper details to every single bad call.

I’m not sure I’d want to.
You never know who might be listening.

01/17/2011

Posted on 01/17/2011
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