Better ways are all over the place.
I swear to you,
there really are better ways
to have me thrown out of someone’s home.

It’s getting to where I know exactly when
it’s important to protect my beautiful face from the glass.

Different windows hurt like a Valentine in December
for different reasons. Different people send me packing
for different transgressions that are seen differently
between the two of us.

Doesn’t get me down. I can’t even remember
what I said the last time. Disaster doesn’t court me,
so much as we catch up on what we’ve been doing
with our hobbies.

Opiates,
vintage penny arcades,
old beer mugs with tattooed harlots on them,
bags of coal in case someone steals a broken train.

We’re familiar. We borrow each other’s cheap,
muddy tuxedos all the time.

It’s gotten to where I can learn to play a broken guitar,
and take myself deadly serious about it every step of the way.

But I’m not confident. My nerves are into bondage.
I really think they would add barbed wire to the knots
they already know if I were to let them.

But, hey, whatever works,
whatever doesn’t work,
and pour me another cup of coffee to celebrate
pretending I’m too young to be able to separate the two.

My nerves need to be slippery. You never know
when I’m going to have to run into traffic
to be a damsel in distress for a damsel.

They need to have their teeth chattering
at 125 degrees.

You never know when I’m going to be
the only person being entertained
by the terrible things I say,
and the stupid things I do.

Egg shells and gun shells are really the same thing,
when you stop, think about it, and make the mistake
of trusting me to finally do the right thing.

11/20/2012

Posted on 11/20/2012
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