wednesday, november 28
loss is the residuum
of nearly all survivable
the fifteenth of november
and a crazy wind has brought down
some bastard child of a warm front
two nights ago i sat in the car and
watched tiny pellets of almost-snow
hit the windshield
tonight i'm standing in my shirtsleeves
on the upstairs deck at twilight street
with a bottle and a pack of spirits
poor substitutes for anyone who gives
a damn but the attention
they demand is uncomplicated
across the valley a band of city
lights pulses in the
lense of intervening air
downstairs i've been painting,
in exchange for a few days room
and board. in a way you'd hardly
recognize the rooms we shared here for
two years — fitting, i guess
you can hardly recognize the people
who shared them.
I refer specifically to you, Mr. Homosexual Sadist in a Red Windbreaker who Came to Mosh - for a while I kept hoping I'd get close enough to punch you repeatedly in the kidneys, but the crowd dynamics never quite worked out, though I was almost there when you were grabbing that 95 pound girl by the arm and throwing her into the circle for the third or fourth time.
And you, Mr. White Long-sleeved T-shirt with the Sheepish Friends who bitched at length that the six or seven people you'd just shoved out of your way because you couldn't be bothered to stand anywhere near the stage during the opening act had attitude - you, sir, are a douchebag of the first water.
And you, Girl Who Kept Shouting for the Opening Act to Play a Song Called "Spanish Town". For the love of Christ, shut up.
That is all.