The apartment is out of bread and milk. There is leftover barbecue in the fridge. The barbecue keeps me from going to the grave.
Staring out the window, I watch the bow crest the New York horizon.
There is cannon fire on the shelves, the holy ghost in my pocket; my captain’s chair, a full power Recliner. Who needs a desk these days?
All the way back
And into my dreams
To the future
milk, cereal, bread. come on bibles. we know you’re still alive. don’t try to fool us. what are you planning? how are you going to get through this? how are you supposed to stay relevant?
Shattered segments of my true self, reclining further into the dream, the illusion of my future, the delusions of grandeur.
Get up, says the voice. We all know you can do this, but all the same, further back I recline.
It’s my gallbladder, I say. You really can’t hold it against me. Musette should have gotten us on her insurance by now, but she hasn’t. The only medicine I’ve got is rest and relaxation. Ragamuffin ain’t fit to live. Under-educated white boy ain’t fit to lead. The revolution’s already underway. You missed your seat on the wheel. Again it rolls over you, into the future, into your dreams. So lie back. Relax. The time is not now. I don’t know what time it is. I’ve got friends in low places. I’m not going anywhere. We all died in that plane crash. I still don’t have a chromebook. I’m still using my wife’s. I’m looking at porn.Daddies daughter swapping. Anything to bring the soul to the surface.
bread, milk, cereal
the further recline
my phone’s not even plugged in
there is no hope for the hopeless
but that’s the new york city rhythm
it rings through my sleep
The bell is tolling, but it’s a joke. a trap. Scorpios don’t have the easiest lives.
I’ve got to plug the phone in, but I don’t need video games. I’ve got to do my own thing. I’ve got to stay light in this life. It’s the only way I’ll heal. Leave ’em all behind. See the trials of life for what they are. Onward and forward into hosanna. The latter day saints. The salvation of art.
I thought I’d be better by now, but I just can’t seem to get there, finding myself concerned with things that don’t matter. Not finding my voice to be my own. Saying things that people want to hear.
There is adventure everywhere, and I’m reclining deeper into the dream, talking about the act of writing rather than reading my writing live on stage.
Life is a balancing act, you should really try to keep doing what’s right. that’s what I keep telling myself, but I’ve got to let this phone charge for a bit, and I’ve got my parents’ cable password now.
so recline and sink back
don’t you think you’ve done enough?
Don’t you think you deserve this?
you’re as dead as a doorknob
Why have you still not given up yet?
Deadwood comes on, the dream of the west. Welcome to my world.
I’m just trying to survive
bread, milk, cereal
leftover barbecue in the fridge