Thee bears, jaguars, beavers never get plugged into this the
bleakest street
in America. The
neighbors behind their Xmas decoration are dead. Lights
winking in their circuit are a warning do not call, walk on: fists in pocket
shoulders hunched, shambolic through this desolated
hall. Be emptied onto
Main Street. There
the bar turns out its furnace heat, the dilapidated rambler
gets a brand new coat, the stone foundation holds. We live for this, more or less.
The buses take us in, we sob and think, drink bourbon and
screw like people do.
Anyone might find us here together in my office, beneath an
ancient photo of
a chocolate lab emerging from a shadow, taut chain
shivering, bees noiseless
in the grasses. I
guess the question is: where does it end? Do you want to be
some asshole in search of the perfect meal and a dream home,
extending his
life all over a road between two worlds? One here, where the snow lays its
hand across our many mouths, and another in the skies, where
I sail around
to parties in heaven, dancing too hard, smoldering at the
periphery, thinking
you'
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