I’m lacking the directions to that sublime sea
that I’ve heard so much about.

I probably slept right through the afternoon
someone in simple spring clothes came by
to tell me what I had to do,
how many mental illnesses I needed to fake,
and how many times I needed to spot Lon Chaney,
and that goddamn queen, in order to get there.

I do that a lot. I lock myself out of the house by noon,
and then I do intelligent, credible things
like lose card games and fistfights to the old man
who drives an ice cream truck past my house in January.

When you chase off a lot of loved ones
all at once, you’ll take whatever conversation you can get.

You’ll draw comic books on yellow napkins,
and tell the waitress to bring back more coffee,
and the story of how she survived losing her wings.

I can’t believe someone out there
still wants my stupid head on their shoulder.

I can’t believe all these lonely nights,
the ones where a fellow goes crazy thinking there’s headlights
burning an ugly tattoo into his back,
haven’t gotten me killed.

Murdered up and down a few times
in the act of being woken up
by a Wisconsin mariachi band,
just outside another photography major’s apartment.

Some of those stories are funny.
Others are best told after I’ve made you promise
not to breathe half a word of the worst ones,
before leaving the room to find another room.

And then a room after that.
One of those stupid, suffocating locales
with toy train tracks glued to the ceiling,
and people who can be shameless in front of anybody.

And then somewhere that lets me hear
the waves crashing into every forgiving word
I try to throw my way.

02/12/2013

Posted on 02/12/2013
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