Had a Few

He writes from India, sends pictures and feigns humility. You ask about the road conditions in Rome and pretend right back. Various trips lie scattered right ahead of you and you hide under the covers with your guitar, I forget to cry but remember to beat my fists into a pulp, it evens out. Spring lies in wait, just underneath the surface it gains strength, it tears at your attention but you are busy losing your appetite over unsurprising news. This isn't how I meant for you to find out. He says he's reading Kerouac and wants to pick strawberries for a life; you smile in recognition but outside your window it is frigid and gray, you fear the blossoms will never come.

I don't want to run, now, I don't want the world to take me away and scatter my spirit into the air, I just want to sit at this typewriter and bleed, I want to close the doors, the windows, the noise around that only serves to distract me, I want to fight the only battle worth the wounds, I tried pretending normalcy and humanity and how easy it is but how useless, no you can have this body, this matter, just let me sit at that desk and pour, let me burn burn burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, I opened the good book to remember and seventy dollars fell out, I believe life is trying to tell me something. I'll listen now, I promise.

I am ready.