Right now life is like a roll of trick shit paper
where all you can pull off are fragments of it
insomnia with no picture to post of it
and thank god i don't have to read any of my own writing
buggering me up the ass as i try to sleep
and nowhere is the road smooth paved
the one that's rewarding to move on
so i drink and drive the hard drive
and drink at 4:01 in the A.M.
and struggle for words like a defunct writer
and struggle for poetry like drinking from a dried river
and drink too much to ride
and hide in a book about another writer
searching for words
on that head on corner
where I'd be remembered poorly
and how New Orleans
is only a street corner
where no one cares.
2 comments:
This passage evoques such a sadness. I can really feel the words, they really hit me hard this morning. Good writing filled with emotions.
Jack was mopping, drinking, thinking of shit that was dead and gone. Shit that he shouldn’t have been thinking about. The days had turned. It was hot. You still felt like swimming in the evening but the mornings had a tinge of pink and were chilly.
Bishop barged in. Swung the door. He gave Jack’s chair a kick. It broke a leg and sent Jack to the floor. Jack was pissed. He up righted the three legged chair. Sat back down and fell to the floor. Bishop laughed. Jack stood, pulled his weapon. It hooked on his holster. He over corrected, shooting a hole in the roof of the cabin.
Splinter, leaves, bits of branches and pack rat shit rained down on him. It was a big caliber gun.
Bishop asked, Is it out of your system?
Jack said, You ain’t dead yet and you busted my chair.
They were both coming around.
Fall would soon cool them off. They would be on opposite sides of the Columbia looking for something.
Bishop said, I hope you have some booze hidden somewhere.
Jack grabbed a bottle, said, We don’t have to hide it here, brother.
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