bad october

I am back to the machine gun
it is gray and ugly outside,
the plateaus obscured
by rain and fog
and the fury of the coastal winds
driven heartward by hot santa anas.
I am back to the machine gun
she is gray like the skies
and the rough paint is chipping
from the underside of her carriage.
the lamp is hot and gold
and we are alone.
please keep lecturing me
there is nothing I need more now
than your brilliant advertisements
of young naivete.
it's becoming more and more evident
that glaring character flaws
are exemplar
of how interesting all lovers are,
but you can all take your double standards
and play the roman fool.
I'd rather be an old man
than be counted useless and hollow
living for a day that will never arrive,
pretending to be content.
and so I
sidelined by the culture
not cynical enough for her tastes
too much of a bastard for her's
clinging to my tattered banner
"at least I have principles"
but they're fading fast
and the jacobins are putting me on trial
for the sins of yesterday.
I'm sure if Marat knew that it would end this way
he would've drowned himself in his bathtub.
after enough of the same faces
the effects of gravity become
much more apparent.
and after hearing all their graven exploits,
I can only think
this is not what I wanted
these are not the stories I want to tell
every sordid detail
propagated for posterity.
is it too late?
it drives me to filth and embarrassment
lying under the same grey sky
I wake to the afternoon sun
and start the long walk
back to the land of the living
delivering apologies on the way.
gone is my era of steak and eggs
midnight coffee and rainy drives
to be replaced by that of
2 AM confessions and clenched fists.
eyes too tired to weep
for the lack of honest friend or lover,
and the crimes of which
I am guilty.

that's fair (4/17/09)

I spent my Friday night
avoiding people
and the people who I wanted to see
were avoiding
me.
after a rainy drive
wherein I decided
Camels taste like lip balm,
I put Waltz for Debby on the stereo
and drank myself to sleep
cradling a bottle of jack.
I woke up around 6 AM
in a murphy bed
and vomited.
stumbling, I tried
to clean up
but it was overpowering
and I left it for tomorrow
like every other problem.
sleep was filled
with the kind of dreaming
that doctors would prescribe,
and waking was easy.
alone, charles bronson
rampaged on the silver screen
and I had steak and eggs
at three in the afternoon,
perched on a leather davenport
smiling at how joyous it was
just to have no one
and be content about it.
and after a few phone calls
I rolled into the city
lacquered with a fresh coat of rain.
the pitter patter of
thunder in the night
rose on the horizon.
and over coffee
we began to talk discourse
and the loss of ourselves.
it made a lousy dinner nicer
but I'd still call it lousy.
I know you're trouble,
but hell
I don't worry.
I’m not asking much
at least not yet.
you say he’s a nice guy,
that he'd like me,
but I remind you
he didn’t beat an assault rap.
honey,
it's just one of those things
where nothing will ever happen,
but god,
don't you know it could?
in the end
what can I say to you
other than shrug
forgetting your eyes,
and think,
well,
that's fair.