THIS IS A POEM ABOUT PAPER MEN AND HORRID WEATHER AND SLUG MUSTACHES 9.28.17

9.29.17

it was destructive
the paper man
flung into the flames,
this sort of pain
i’m describing
is hopeless to escape
from, you must allow
it to devour you.
what do i remember?
streetlamps blinking
in a sideways rain
that turned light
to liquid, light swimming
in the air and the sound
of large tires churning up
the interstate. i drank
at a bar called Finney’s
and waited out the rain
and felt magnificent
on my way out of the
suedelined door, into
the residue mist of horrid
weather, prepared to spend
my first night on the street.
the air felt like breathing cloth.
i counted two hundred steps
north and fell into a ravine or
puddle of some kind and slept
there with the slugs and woke up
with frogs riding my face.
a boot punched me in my ribs
and i followed with my gaze the
leg that it belonged to
and found
to my amazement
a policeman with a mustache
shaped like the very slugs
i’d slept with. this was it, i thought.
your life is ready to begin.


Written at 10:45 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. 

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