searching for something,
i know not what,
i research techniques
for making butter and
kits for brewing homemade
beer, and cheddar cheese. hard
earned cash i throw away
on overpriced morsels of food
when really a drive-thru would
not only taste better but it’d be
faster and cheaper and better air
conditioned, inside my car.
inside my car is where the real
deevolution of thought begins,
as the voice of Roy Orbison croons
through the speakers, I attempt
to imitate it, fabricating in my mind
entire scenarios where i’m playing
at the Roxy or Wilshire Ebell or Echoplex
or Glasshouse or Greek, bright lights and
screaming smoke as humans gather in the
thousands to hear me sing. a life of obsession,
sometimes the good kind
sometimes the bad
defines me. today it’s artisan food
and fifties music. tomorrow it will be
liquor again, drugs
and the verbal harassment that accompanies
same. then comes solitude and nature
documentaries and fantasies about moving
to some lonely cabin on a single mountaintop
overlooking continents of wooded land,
looking out for fires. i don’t give a shit.
virginia woolf said it best
but i forgot exactly what she said.
something about a clean and quiet room and
five hundred dollars a month.
keep the five hundred.
give me someplace clean and quiet
and i’ll shut the fuck up and
go away forever.
Written at 12:03 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. This poem was supposed to be three lines about looking at old pictures, and how nothing changes except we get fatter every year. I’m not sure what happened.