cold leftovers…

Some four hour conversation drifting exactly as old friends should speak; split the difference and tap the breaks just often enough to tell all the old stories with updates and epilogues. Takes time to build up to something like that. Slipping out of format just wide enough to leak out the life-saver sparkle. A little bit of light; reference points worn down to stumps.

I’d spin if anything ever slowed down enough, but that never seems to happen. Treating my own flesh and blood like I might run out of both if I close my eyes for too long, yet nothing happens. I guess the ghosts have have their fun or the amphetamine boost just left them behind. After so much time running from the what I assume to be a stampede of ornery prison guards, it is second nature to need convincing when it comes time to shut down the lights. I’m not afraid of the dark as much as I am of what the darkness might say. Even limiting the damage to internal certainty of such madness is enough to fear sleep with the same dread as an uncovered mirror.

Over and over again the same arguments keep toiling on, and the magnets in my chest can’t be turned off as easily as the lights. Dragged kicking and screaming was never more true than when the late hours greet tired eyes. Whatever the good news from around the world, whatever electric poets plaster over blank walls, everything feels too tiring to fight back. If it weren’t for the cigarettes and mangoes I’d really be lost. The lighted tip is just enough evidence to move forward on, whatever forward means it hurts so badly to move. Whatever the time scale of the disaster, the after-effects all seem the same. Now I’m unsure if that means I’ve done too much or not nearly enough. Only thing to do is carve out a quiet place next to the speakers and hope the sound waves carry me off. A long-shot at best.

Fried tornadoes & three songs playing all at once. Nothing sounds right except the accentuated greetings of someone I haven’t seen in a dog’s age. Something like Bukowski’s small dragons, slayed and flayed, just like the rest of us. Truth be told, that Blue-Ridge mix has me; it holds you tight but not tight enough. Without being able to hear a single heart-beat I am terrified rather than comforted. Sitting under all the light bulbs saving the environment one finger at a time is helps some; as does my trusted lighter. Waves of desire will take their toll as surely as breathing in will sooner or later result in the need to breath out.

Leaving already in a tired mind with great hopes that by the time the sun shoots waves or particles over the tree-line, everything else will work itself out until the elemental rotation resets the clock. I wanna meet a bartender with a story to tell as I wait, but she’s gone off with the idea of spreading the word to all the young kids demanding to be taught something that makes everything else they’ve been told finally make some kind of sense.

Bad news kids. It won’t work like that. Even if you hear every word and know every syllabus, at the end of the day it’s your problem every bit as much as it is mine to fix everything we’ve broken. The earth can’t rotate fast enough.

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