[For a friend]
He used to walk
to the edge
of town, feet dusty,
raw
and then back again
Love, if he thinks about it hard
enough
becomes something close
to tangible.
Sometimes his voice
still bounces
around aimlessly
blindly
in his head
like a canary in a coal mine.
He said: We are fast approaching
the day of ultimate
Destruction.
Who cares? A cold hand
wakes him from his sleep
He thought
to himself (to everyone, all the time)
where’d all the good
people go? Or
did they ever
exist to begin with?
He barely remembers
a time when he loved
himself (anyone, ever)
and someone once said:
the seventh key will open
all the doors
but…
he only had
six.
Night will again
fall
and again
he will be alone
with his thoughts
trying desperately
frantically,
frenetically (fantastically?)
to transform matter
into antimatter
and back into matter again
He seriously considered
careening into
oncoming traffic
the music
of horns and screeching
smoking
tires.
Then Eric Clapton sang
I shot
the sheriff
but no one gave a shit
about
the deputy.
He used to write
lyrics, poetry
dreams-turned
pocket-sized
romance novels
or cheap
dime store comic books
or sitcom scripts
but burned them
for the warmth.
Some days
he takes a cold
shower
to remind him
he’s alive
not dead.
Not stinking.
Vibrant.
Really like this. Well written.
Posted by Noah Matthews | August 27, 2012, 6:13 pm