somewhere (4/20/09)

is there an absurdity to it?
that kind of feeling
that I’d rather be somewhere else.
it’s poorly-furnished
I don’t think those kind of places exist
anymore.
Maybe, a white room off of
Van Nuys
and a girl who has
black eyes
with a yellow
gladiola in
her black hair
no.
maybe
a tin-roofed
juke joint
deep in the American jungles
or
if I feel tragic
an absinthe café
on Decatur
pimps and poets
in linen suits
best
the inside of a large Cadillac
with a torch song
playing full blast
its echo spread into
a velveteen night.
oh well
what does it matter
to anybody
where I want to be?
I am the kind of man that
is only missed when you know
that he’s gone.