Pressing down on me,
like an old vicious mule;
I sing your song.
There’s a Pershing smack:
it’s on your lips, it’s close to your tongue
it will meet your throat;
and it’ll make a way towards your heart.
The mares have been coming back,
looking around, like a dumb donkey that just woke up,
in a strange foggy field,
for all intents, born yesterday.
She asked me about it this morning, when I pulled on my jeans.
I rubbed my eye
like I always do,
‘You know, they’ve never really gone away,
so it’s hard to say they’re coming back.’
I was still falling down a mountainside,
forward rolls and drops and cracks;
a catatonic crash-test-dummy
yells like a bell rung underwater.
And there are others,
like nesting wasps,
scrawled notes of the songs of myself,
Those are the days I don’t need coffee.
I’ve become grateful.
For the most part, my memory
is a leaky boat, that has acquired
Impossible to know,
impossible to tell, I smile now,
knowing that one of the best things in life
In the last one,
just the other day
the world was a vast sahara.
And I, was one of it’s problem children:
choked in a nice necktie, smiling broadly as I decline a seat.
My hands do the fidget dance,
where a dog, is somewhere near your garden,
it’s not well.
The same place where your friend doesn’t tip the waitress.
He shutters the bill,
and stands up, soon as you have taken your last bite;
singing the song of himself.