22 maja 2012
Farewell Spain: Preamble To The Exit
Bright luminous yellow circles
line a street on a small Malasaña hill
and the light reflects off
uneven puddles in the cracks.
"Life is a painting without us in the way
finishing another guilt ridden cigarette",
without the wild laughs at jokes
that are not funny,
without the wild laughs at stories
that are not that interesting,
without the glasses of red wine
spinning from the head to the stomach.
Without the dread of returning to the corner of the bar
watching with an extra pair of eyes the nonsense
of self-absorbed stimulus monkeys
positioning for social status
sex, or to forget their unintentionally normal lives
decieved by all too obvious verbs:
I am
I want
I need
I have.
I dread the spectacled reruns
of lifeless tortured dependencies
valuing small reoccuring moments
marked by headaches and forgotten memories
that was the night before.
I have been pushed to the edge of sane insanity
by one too many matter of fact pieces of advice
into the arms of pure love that I cannot hold fast enough,
and light heart to the carry the burden on a pair of shoulders
that needs nothing more than a sturdy pack
and a good pair of walking shoes
to carry me from
acid trips in the mountiains
to
the sweat lodges and poetry clubs of St. Louis
to
the the streets of Manhattan.
To an old man who refuses to go quietly in this night
and to
the the God-like wisdom of a Five-year old.
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