Why I Subject Myself to This

Why I Subject Myself to This

Am I masochistic?
asking for the hand, in
a sense, of a woman
whose pants slide
seamless off her smooth
razored legs like the sun,
30 minutes of sunset?

Listening to her whispers, above
the roar behind the shower curtain,
telling my friend to “keep it down.”
I pull my ear from the paper-thin
wooden door, “I think I hear
something coming” she says.

I go back to the outside
patio that looks out wide at Monterey
from the hills, safe
from the top hat of fog
chuggin inland from the
sea, as I
snap a match and light a stoge

I wince and take a long drag
as her and him, hair wet, stomp onto the

She rolls a
late morning spliff
to share as we chat about
classes and post-graduate
overseas studies, planning
an alone day at the beach
for me and her. He goes
inside to get
his best shoes for work, talk-
ing about two pairs of socks
to avoid the blisters

She smiles at me, holding in
her lungs a swirl of smoke, then
closing her eyes and pursing her
lips to blow out a slow stream
of smoke, like from incense
crawling to a ceiling to evaporate…
     …she passes me the spliff

He leaves, riding his bike in
loafers to work, waving
goodbye to me and her,
now alone, at his house.

we pack up our things, a
single backpack each, me with
my guitar, her with her
purse, treading
water out the front door to
my car, flying..

I flip on a tune roll
my windows down, starting
the car, almost forgetting
that she was about to
crawl into the passenger seat

Im flying so fucking high

We sit in the
silence of
the music, me
and her tappin
our hands on the steering
wheel and steel door, respectively,
to the beat of a Grateful
Dead tune.

“Been ballin my jack from dawn till doom,
While my rider hides my bottle in the other room!”
I sing
interrupted by the sounds of
shitty hip-hopy pop
coming from the radio of
a teeny bopper driving a Mercedes
Benz and I realize its bullshit

its all a bunch of

from the mono tonular
melody of the music, to
the girl playin mind games
sitting next to me
     tappin away, trying
          to forget
while my ambivolence
and sarcasm
fills the situation
like a bullet in a chamber.
But I just drive on,
smoking the last lucky
stoge, music filling
the car, but I’m
stuck in my own
head, dying alive.

No comments:

Post a Comment