The Wrong Road, Long and Rainwashed (Overlooking City Lights on A Cold Night)


We run across rickety, swinging wooden suspension bridges from fierce paper dragons that breathe real fire. Laughing. It’s still a dream right now, but it could be real. Don’t be intimdated by big brown doe eyes. Put that pen to work under those shaking fingers and drop that blue bomb you always seem to be nursing. I’m willing to part the seas for you little Pisces Jesus Masculine version of me. 

I watch you walk away and know for certainty it’s the last look I’ll have of you…of your best side. You’ll linger in my mind like the image of a windmill full of corpses. The stench won’t be any better. I’ll want to give away everything to save you. I’ll aways imagine I misread the battlefield some kind of way. I’ll dream I’m on a dark backroad that never ends and it’s raining nonstop. I’m praying for an interestate escape that never comes. My headlights burn out first. I wake up to the sound of screaming rattling my chest. 

True. This level’s been fun. But time has run out and we didn’t collect nearly enough stars. Just the way it goes sometimes. It was all stardust and moonshakes, connecting on levels high above the atmosphere. But reality has claws that have overgrown control. The responsibilities of someone with real needs exhausts the power supply. Crawl back into the safety of the sheets of your own mind. 

Vonnegut was right when he said women go to desperately dangerous places in search of love. Or at least i do. Anna comes along and holds the pen. And as I let bigmouth strike again and again and again, delivering that snake venom that unravels even as it unmasks, she reels details and exposatory in. Hook, line, sink her. 

A church hall of fun where softcore pornography plays loud and bright, while filth card games are laid down. No money in this kitty. If everyone’s laughing, shall we put it away? And a closet to piss in with an uncovered table lamp on the floor that illuminates just barely the spider webs carpeting the ceiling. The sink is covered with a styrofoam cup and won’t get you clean. You can’t undo things that someone else’s seafoam eyes have seen. 

My new autobiography I’ll name after you. I’ll call it in subtitled text: Panic! The Winter I Went Mad and Lost Touch with All Sense of Real, of Meaning, of Purpose. For short, I’ll call it, “Finally. The Story of How I Realized I’m the One in Control of Me.” No relinquishing something like that. It’s only taken a quarter century to discover. Who could have guessed there was a second heartbeat? Right where the first one was supposed to be. 

The window’s not just closing. It’s slamming home. The fork of four roads, the four way stop you’ve only now considered, although it’s loomed ahead, warning lighting pulsating all along. It has come and you’d best not stand gaping so long. 

Just rest assured in knowing the way you stay to won’t be wrong because by definition, the chosen elminates the unknown unrealities. And yet, still it will be the lest favored choice in hindsight, all perky in a false goldenrod glow. 

Count the cups until the infection takes hold, ripping apart all this lovely self-control. I’m so very tired of not being alone. 



Giving new meaning to the phrase “all dressed up and nowhere to go.” At least nowhere where I know how to be. They don’t talk about the archeological digs that turn up nothing but dirt, but I’m sure they happen. Hours and emotion go into  the investments here I imagine. 

You thought the first date would be to the movies, but plan A got scrapped and B was too tame, so C…you ended up in a downtown ghetto gay bar on New Year’s Eve Eve. Free cheeseburer, long island iced tea sip, and candid confessions of alcoholism and life dreams are on the menu. The decision has been made to saw off the state of Florida from our continent. We’d only miss the rampant beach bummery anyway. What’s another word for “bollocks?”

He didn’t call. Even Cinderella got a callback. Plans made undone. You wore jewelry that was all gifted. The world has always taken care of you up to now. And still, you will pretend. To not care. Sometimes things should slip. Let them lay where they may. The field narrows to one to none and you pursue something that lingers between knotted paper fibers. There was no music. You realized how much that dress unflattered you. 


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