From some stranger’s wake
in the suburbs of either Virginia Beach
or Long Island,
a house I seem to know intimately
regardless of instinct,
to the supernatural orgy
at the kind of farmhouse where people.
can drink, screw and ask whatever questions they want.

Because,
obviously,
the music is loud,
and no one’s listening to questions anyway.

The music at the farmhouse
is so thunderous that I can ignore it.

I’m not as lucky with disregarding
the strong hands, wild eyes
and babbling lust of an ex-girlfriend
clearly fallen on hard emotional times.

The song at the wake is on repeat
and is apparently coming out of the walls.
It’s the saddest of the miserable midnight sing-alongs,
and it’s goddamn horrible that no one else seems to hear it.

I ask, too. I get downright obnoxious when I feel as though
something is inferring on my rights to forget at least
a partial list of the unforgiveable things I’ve said and done.

Soldiers with white hair and eyebrows give me quarters,
and ask me to get them a beer from the fridge.
Expecting mothers treat me coldly,
as if my words of wisdom will ruin the futures of the unborn.

At the farmhouse
there’s talk around the campfire
of either a tornado or a tsunami coming through.
But no one knows
if we’re anywhere near an ocean,
or what the history of twisters in the area is like.

Someone might just be trying to ruin
the good time
that everyone but me is having.

There’s a rush then by a few
to find and love the difference
between perversion and revival.

Who gets saved,
or who gets their face pushed down
in the mud for another invitation.

I can’t drive at either one of these places,
and I really do wish I could.

What bothers me even more is wondering
why all of it seems to be going on
at the exact same time.

However this happened,
whoever sold me on trading where I was going
for the best and worst of my imagination replacing memories,
they must have hit me with a hell of a sales pitch.

Or it might have just been something I ate.

04/08/2012

Posted on 04/08/2012
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