How can I keep from
rushing. The days are getting long and
young things sprouting everywhere from the heads of the old. The nights are better than ever for being alone on the roof of a
demolition site, singing a nicotine song to the stars. A plague of promises falls upon us and all I really want is to
pluck one from the air to call my own.
Just one.
It's tempting to believe this is as
surreal as it gets, in spring with seawater in the air and the gates of
fairy tale worlds as close to lowered as they come.
Summer's drunks are just around the corner;
now is the time to drop acid and dig the ruins. But there's more. We see spring freshest watching it
sting a new pair of other eyes. This is the loudest season. It can no more be
patient than fall can be innocent. And I, I am
thistle-down against the planet's turning.
This night is so
young. I don't want to scare her under the skirts of
a sweaty dawn asking too much when the sun's just barely let her out to play. I'm. Gritting. My-teeth.
I wait in lamplight, get drunk on
fridge beer, trying not to press my luck. When I go out it will be to locked bars. I go to pick through the night's trash for
God's phone number in a matchbook. A froth of newly-minted secrets sweeps through the city in the baptismal silence before morning
and we can catch ours.