SOMETHING TO WRITE ABOUT
I don’t hang out with the devil
much anymore but he still calls
from time to time; when it’s night
or when it’s morning or when
these stubborn feet don’t wanna move
or when the bed calls me to sleep
before it is even ten pm
I don’t tell my girl
but he leaves voicemails every so often
asks me can I even remember
the last time I’ve tasted three am?
Asks me can I remember the last time
I’ve felt like Adonis? Been the Uberman?
Grooved my footsteps into the wooden floors?
Can I still get it up without a burning nose?
Do the whispers still keep me up at night?
Do I really feel comfortable
in the realm of the living?
Because I’ve lived a thousand lives before dusk
I’ve haunted midwestern cow towns
for cigarettes and adventure
I’ve sold my last ounce of honor
for a bowl of Elysium in dim-lit rooms
I’ve slain friends in my hearts
over minor quarrels and burned effigies
of my future in gasoline pyres
linoleum melting from the house
like crystal balls dripping through the hands
of the soothsayers
I’d say I didn’t know any better
but I’d be lying, I saw the crash
before I ever even signed my name
but I guess I needed to find my way
I guess I needed to see oblivion
for myself, I guess I needed a scar
I could write about
Originally appeared in Big Hammer