Tuesday, August 20, 2013

the peasant’s moan

A silent theatre makes a talkie sad. Dropped dead into a hurricane’s roar. Bled to life around a cotton spool. A hundred dollars in my shoe soles. I’ve been chatting with a cocktail glass. Getting edgy about a butter knife. Lent and splattered on the kitchen floor. I can’t wish myself back to yesterday’s lies. There are no more roaches in the cereal. Billed for it at a later date. Giving away what’s not left of my cares. The cardboard bums of summer stuck in Saturday’s blues. Keeping the room less than clean. Two for seven and a couple more for a dozen. I’m reeling into whatever’ll come on along. Blessing myself every time I sneeze. It takes none to know none. Hard as a candy apple. A pouting doll makes a cop run. Lashed awake into a rifled tune. Burnt to a rusty finish. A couple smooth dimes up my sleeve. I’ve been ruminating with a beer stein. Growing old over a few worse memories. Chopped and spilled all over the linoleum again. The hacks of autumn are running out of ideas. Redoing it all for a song. Get without it, already. Plastic’s the reason we go along so greedy and lunging. Borrowed a pie pan from a hard-up nun. Been keeping company with no-parking signs and smashed microwaves. Whatever streets seem less paved for it. Bolstering and hoisting up what I’ve got for the seeing-eye dogs to bark at. I am not making it. Ticket takers scream, “Of course!” for me. What jewels hang ruby red from the trees for me? Or not, for me, at all. Rip open the drapes and call the racketeers. It’s all over and it’s just begun. Mend the paper cuts out of Tuesday’s worst. We all feel like rain here. We all take on the dives of others. We’re all lonelier than we’ll ever let on. Trying moods on for size. Constellations of cities lit between the black patches. Some sorry-looking sucker with his hair slicked back and gooped together with rose oil and Vaseline. A rascal from his arches to his eyebrows. It was the sound of helicopters that finally did it. Runny egg yolk and a stillborn rat. They take your money and then forget to check your pulse. Now it’s all termite territory. I’m left backing out of strange driveways, eyes peeled for deserters, the gradient of my mettle steeper than ever. Not on board for the ride. The traveling signals of modality get strange, with colder coats than this, with occult densities gone, with brains substituted for looks. Just sitting around feeling bad. Wilting into it. It is a day that passes, a cutout mood, and a preened temper gone afoul. Sword in need of a polish, but still sharper than a hangnail. Don’t make this missing places too hard to replace. Darn is the new damn. I’m Calico-bound. Don’t wish me well. Don’t be a card carrier who’s always in the midst of doing marvelous things. Nobody’s on the case now. It’s possible I’ll steal a run. Or maybe I’ll mistake free hands for a dance. Get me a belt buckle with a picture of Hank Williams on it. Get me lost. There are no more rainy days left to save for. There’s not a lot of stances left to happen up by the Wisconsin border. Sleep’s gained and thrown away all the time. Drunk again. You’ve got the pleasant things and the plain and horrible and deranged. My best friends whom I hardly know at all. It’s pressure’s lump sum sped to haste in a snap. Nothing ever happens. It must not ever be love, then. It must be. Sing be back away. Dearly dumped and taken. It knows one to take one. Unprepared for gospel means. The hamburger stand’s holding me up, like always. Calling the iron’s brand, slashed and with lazy sevens, hanging rafters, flying serifs and all. I’ve got a rock pick in my back pocket. My face has gone out of style. Blast it. Douse the lights. On first thought, give me a second. I’ve gone kaput.