I don’t care anymore
about getting too old
to finally fuck my way to
Hank Moody-legend status.
or to earn a cold million
outright, in loose change.
I might still love
a collection or too,
but whether it’ s
part of the problem
of commerce or piracy,
or produced with the
loose change I have on me,
as long as it has memories
it is better than gold.
I’m all about sharing.
Knew this kid who would
have morning after parties,
turn his speakers on bust
and face em out the windows
because I suppose like
myself, he thought,
what if the people
haven’t heard Miles Davis’
In A Silent Way?
or in his case some horrible mix on a
satellite tv Dance station,
but whose accounting for taste?
I’m worried about not getting
all the words down now.
More Honesty
There is a poem in every trip,
to the local gas station coffee shop.
The Ambulance drivers behind me
chattering with the headset.
The man ahead insisting
he still pay for something
while the pleasant girl on the till insists,
each time her insistence
further verging on aggravation,
or at least Newfoundlander annoyance.
They look like out-of-towners,
Mom, Pop and pre-teen
Sauntered to the East Coast,
to pose before cliché Jelly Bean rows
and the other recent additions
to our supposed culture
by our bored tourism board.
I do what we all do in local holes,
secretly wish to switch with them,
go elsewhere while
still a moderately young man,
just get the fuck out.
And not because it is unpleasant,
although this neighborhood is
half- elderly / half amenities
a few gansta-street-speaking-skeet’s
and a few kindly elderly poor,
but because I am afraid of
being anywhere too long,
forgetting there is
always somewhere else,
while somewhere still exists,
it can never get bad,
and you won’t go mad,
as long as there’s
somewhere else.
Until nothing is left.
To be brutally real,
that’s as much as we can
have, any of us, I guess.
And it scares the sleep from me,
If I am being completely honest.
