The Warpath, continued.

Woke up with knots in my hair;
sadly, You didn't put them there.
I have a rabbit that won't eat carrots
though she loves chewing my sheets
and it boggles my mind.

Woke up with a loaded shotgun in the closet
in case those three Mexicans came back
and an empty bottle of wine on the floor
singing what was ringing
through my head last night:
zombies and dull knives
in abandoned houses
that I used to live in.

I am not a writer;
A writer wouldn't rest until his work was done.
I am a person who likes to write, maybe
even right on a night when I'm on.

And I got other news for ya:
The Union ain't all it's cracked
up to be; this ain't the Seventies
when people's heads were busted
if they didn't hire Local boys.

I'd be lying if I said I smoked for the taste.
It's more of a way to kill time
while thinking of what to say
instead of strangling whomever
I'm talking to at the moment.

Never tell them what all
of your tattoos mean;
there are some things
you still owe some people.

"And you're wrong; I study your eyes
and they're different from his."
"If you saw his you'd disagree."
"No, you're different."
"Yeah."
"Say you're different."
"I'm different."

Maybe I'm just jealous
because he beat me to
the wife part, and he predicted it
far better than I could've.
Then again, I always enjoy a good twist.
I thought of buying him a belated wedding gift
and leaving it on his doorstep, maybe something
with the words to John 3:16 as an added kidney shot
but realized there's no point anymore.
Let the man live his life
despite his choice to do it
without me in it.
I guess it's only fair that we both
get our second chances.
One of his favorite bands (pre-Jesus), the Beach Boys
came on the radio at work the other day and I
snorted, hoping he finally found his California girl.

And now:
your chance
to come out of the Woodwork
and give up your voyeurism.
(You fail.)

I park my truck in a large parking lot
every other day for my carpooled commute to work
and though no one is around my vehicle
when I pull in there at six in the morning
the lot fills up by the end of the day when I return.
Last week I noticed a small scratch near the door handle
where someone's door hit mine upon opening
and though you can't even see it from two feet away
I know it's there.

It's true:
I don't like people.

But the real kicker came yesterday;
wiped my ass
saw blood
and remembered that even I
am only human

and tonight, in Your absence, I will drink You
straight from the bottle.



Currently reading:
"The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens."