When I was young I believed in everything.
Angels and demons and everything in between.
I believed I would be a legend,
I believed I was chosen for a spell.
Music made love to the frozen neurons and
I even dreamt of super-powers like invisibility.
It got pretty complex, pretty distinct.
A perfect world.
For awhile I dug serial killers.
I’m not ashamed to admit it.
The paperbacks stacked around my room.
I had a mattress back then,
even the frame of a bed was
too constricting too much like the construct
I was so fucking cliché but it felt real, so eat it.
I can get a little obscene.
No show is too small though,
I’ll perform at your bah mitzvah or your
Even if you’re a forgotten celebrity.
I had one of those IBM processors
from the late 80’s
with the interchangeable font-balls?
(I remember seeing them in Kids in the Hall skits)
Fuck I loved that beast. Huge. You could’ve
written a murder mystery or committed one with it.
It whirred like a car, kept a steady engine like hum.
You missed it later if it wasn’t there.
When the ribbons finally died, it was useless.
I kept the fonts for years. They gave me something to stare at,
and before I lost them and before the ink dried up
And they stopped making new ones that size because
technology, let’s face it, doesn’t give a fuck
for sentimentality or its rituals, long before;
they’d given me some of my first great lines.
And they were all clichés too, but fuck it,
they were necessary keys stamped out in the
backyard of now.
My closet tomb keeps them until the wine
one night lets them all speak again.
They’re not all terrible.