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. 

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