…i don’t want to remember, the life, the dreams, the split seams in the sofa meant for two, seating one. one, me. alone, stoned past, hashed out to the max. yearning for one more toke, to choke back some vodka in a half-remembered day-mare. i don’t want to remember.
last night like an asteroid splitting the night sky you appear in my dreams. me and you, remembering and singing the praises of the old days. i’m surprised i wasn’t awoken with the smell of tobacco and stolen whiskey.
the days of our past, just smashed like age old reveries haunting me. another affair with a dare to come back to you. something in my sub-conscious tearing at my soul to make you whole. when all i do is sing praises of your days.
if i could, i would rearrange whole the toll we placed upon each other and smother one another in molasses and sweet sticky love-making syrup. tear up the bad days and replace them with something more foundational for our relational toll.
but all i’m stuck with is a protection order from another state and a death stare from you in my objectionable reality.
refract with me into trapeze flips and skips of the flip book into something more atoning for our home. my home. my stoned face staring at your goofy baked smile, laughing at something you just can’t quite place, at our second place, in parker. kicking it, and kicking me out before i could shout that tonight was gonna be a good night.
i suppose these poems are for me, and me alone. i write to the daylight, the sun strife, the moonbeams under sundae candy. the taffy dental floss in our teeth of grief with one another. cover me, cover me, cover me,…
i want to fight with you, for you, inside of you…or her, or that other girl over there, dare me to stress the seam and i will bend backwards to fill up and overflow your goddess goblet. straight lit with intention of no pension or mortgage, just a forfeiture of ego in a joker toked acid hit. with you,…god i would love to trip with you and see you flip at the sight of the one fight, the one goal of whole overfilling and undoing of one’s ego. and the jokes, and laughs, and acid baths we could have shared sear like hot wax off a car detail.
icicles at winter park know our name. my fame smeared around the internet like infant poo to call you home. so i guess for you, it’s either poo at home or poo on the road. stoned though. baffling applications of reduction. impossible concentration. redacted refractions. sightly deconstruction.
write me sometime, if you see this, which you won’t. i’m home most days and I don’t bite. hard. i bite very hard. but i guess what i’m trying to say is i miss you, her, it. that thing of youth swept under the rug like a bug infestation of memory. that’s why i say i don’t want to remember….the notes, the chords, the songs, i just want your bong in my hand demanding to be filled again to the brim with some sweet sticky icky. prickly pear juice and a noose around both our necks for the defeat we laid upon uncle sam’s feet. outlaws without inlaws.
i would cry to you, and i might, because it’s been so long even the fog song of your last memory echoing in my brain of you….you washing apples…getting ready to make caramel apples, in the saddle with you late night at mcdonalds, 120 degree heat and my stupid fishing trips to alligator lake while you at home bake cakes, and muffins with delight. teaching you to fish…i miss you.
but i don’t want to remember, or dream, or breathe, until you, or someone just like you, lies inside my arms. and i protect her to the ends of the earth, until the end of time.
where’d you go i guess i would ask. was it me? was it my anger? my youthful resentment that you had, and will always have your own life? was it my cheating heart? was it that other guy’s fart? i’m not sure most days, all i know is i continue to play my guitar, your guitar, your hands wrapped around my hands, wrapped around the hacienda’s guitar…rendezvous with me to the hacienda on fort sam. with weed, whiskey, acid, mushrooms and lots of cigarettes. kool’s i believe and maybe a pack American spirits or two…see you there tonight, and every night…in my dreams alone, stoned with you on a ride down south your acne kiss mouth i swear i could swallow like a bottle of youth serum.
dream britani…
