fictions, speculative dreams, and meditations
That is not a bat stretching its wings
more than likely its a bird
those scalloped edges make that clear
a smudged brown of a thing at that
yes, if you connect the edges
they’re ruffled.
I’ve just realized something,
the poet speaks,
as cars materialize and disappear
tumbling wrong angles
on this malinformed trip
The bottom of the coffee can
is covered with rust
except for a palm print
where it still shines
we humans are a greasy lot in summer
and be damned to find it’s always summer
the rusting coffee can
probably doesn’t care, and might
even enjoy the contrast human contact
has made—I was touched once it says
and everything dies slowly
This has to be the longest time between drafts, the original is from Mar 26, 2010
By the time the bar closes
I will be four hours older
and four hours drunker.
I will be four hours more disillusioned
and four hours more lonely
By the time I stumble along the aimless streets
nicely buzzed and nicely angrily alone
heading for a cluttered home
I will be four hours more destitute and angry
Hope to pass out before there’s time
to think and remember and ruminate
on this shaggy sorry state
By the time the bar closes
I will be four hours closer
