10-22-2018, 06:03 AM
Three Night Songs
I
Solitude
I get in bed, shortly after twelve,
like a wet, dirty dog on an autumn night,
the chill makes my blanket more blanket-like,
the moon is too low, or no, too
far west by now to come in the window,
though soon
bright no matter where in the sky,
and warm my room, my bed, me,
my things.
A hairy creature, my mouth still wet
and my digestion with beer, cheese dip
and some peanut butter chocolate,
I digest and breathe and inhale my
ass and underarm oil, gas, fumes of breath
in and out. I smack my lips for good measure
like Barney Bear in that cartoon where he wanted
everything to be quiet so he could get a goodnight sleep.
When I drink I astrally project demons
or dream of a feverish insomnia.
When I don't I dream of childhood,
of walking down the road,
or of sex—like death,
and wake just before climax.
II
Wasted Time
I prefer to sleep at night,
but not before I explore some;
the midnight tides of far off howling,
and the random cough of an outside neighbor.
I don't know how people think
when it's quiet.
But me, I walk, look around,
pick a spot to listen.
There are dreams to come, but night is here;
and I've wasted so much time.
So many nights inside
my head.
Wishing there was more.
Spinning. Lost in daytime scuffles,
when all I wanted was the night,
and its bright sensations.
Sober attention and long-lasting energy.
Not like a battery, but, a man,
an animal, with spirit;
these nights I've wasted;
will I even be around next year?
Will the place? the night? the season?
I want to sit in a Pumpkin Patch
with a girl my own age
or just a little younger,
and
feel the ages rush over me
and her, both,
like the woods' Tradition's grandness
and life's flashes before the season's death.
I want to witness autumn in blackness
in the burning legend's light.
Legends'.
But I am drunk and tired.
I never was when the world was young.
III
Signalling
With backpack on my back
I go to look for lost loves,
not women even,
but treasures once mine
or almost mine.
I'll make imprints
of clawmarks on trees
from years ago still standing
that may have been made by the Wampus,
and old teeth knocked out of old friends
that would have been far rotted by now if they'd stayed in their heads,
old blood stains from vampires on the run,
and I'll find the hole to Paperland
if not a whole box of drawings—characters
I created when I was a kid.
I'll find them and bring them home.
I'll plant a christmas tree, and find a bunny
that lays eggs;
I'll find videos of the youngest, beautifullest
actress to play in my VCR.
I'll call my dead girlfriend on a rotary phone.
Then I'll lay out my stakes and the garlic
and cookies and glassbottle milk,
and wait for them to come retrieve
all the things that I find . . .
And if they don't, I will,
again.
I
Solitude
I get in bed, shortly after twelve,
like a wet, dirty dog on an autumn night,
the chill makes my blanket more blanket-like,
the moon is too low, or no, too
far west by now to come in the window,
though soon
bright no matter where in the sky,
and warm my room, my bed, me,
my things.
A hairy creature, my mouth still wet
and my digestion with beer, cheese dip
and some peanut butter chocolate,
I digest and breathe and inhale my
ass and underarm oil, gas, fumes of breath
in and out. I smack my lips for good measure
like Barney Bear in that cartoon where he wanted
everything to be quiet so he could get a goodnight sleep.
When I drink I astrally project demons
or dream of a feverish insomnia.
When I don't I dream of childhood,
of walking down the road,
or of sex—like death,
and wake just before climax.
II
Wasted Time
I prefer to sleep at night,
but not before I explore some;
the midnight tides of far off howling,
and the random cough of an outside neighbor.
I don't know how people think
when it's quiet.
But me, I walk, look around,
pick a spot to listen.
There are dreams to come, but night is here;
and I've wasted so much time.
So many nights inside
my head.
Wishing there was more.
Spinning. Lost in daytime scuffles,
when all I wanted was the night,
and its bright sensations.
Sober attention and long-lasting energy.
Not like a battery, but, a man,
an animal, with spirit;
these nights I've wasted;
will I even be around next year?
Will the place? the night? the season?
I want to sit in a Pumpkin Patch
with a girl my own age
or just a little younger,
and
feel the ages rush over me
and her, both,
like the woods' Tradition's grandness
and life's flashes before the season's death.
I want to witness autumn in blackness
in the burning legend's light.
Legends'.
But I am drunk and tired.
I never was when the world was young.
III
Signalling
With backpack on my back
I go to look for lost loves,
not women even,
but treasures once mine
or almost mine.
I'll make imprints
of clawmarks on trees
from years ago still standing
that may have been made by the Wampus,
and old teeth knocked out of old friends
that would have been far rotted by now if they'd stayed in their heads,
old blood stains from vampires on the run,
and I'll find the hole to Paperland
if not a whole box of drawings—characters
I created when I was a kid.
I'll find them and bring them home.
I'll plant a christmas tree, and find a bunny
that lays eggs;
I'll find videos of the youngest, beautifullest
actress to play in my VCR.
I'll call my dead girlfriend on a rotary phone.
Then I'll lay out my stakes and the garlic
and cookies and glassbottle milk,
and wait for them to come retrieve
all the things that I find . . .
And if they don't, I will,
again.
