I) Interregnum, explanunum
"Have you frequented funerals, or went a wake in a room rammed with ripened flowers? Remember the almost unbearable pungency, that you can hardly barely breathe?"
He turned the car radio down low, stopped dancing his head around, and said:
"It's not like that."
"Well it's the best I can come up with."
All the little birds getting brighter and brighter until some schoolboy Darwin finds himself arm-in-arm with a glintz peacock in a diamond clasp between her nubile shoulderblades and somebody shoot me now I'm off into the darkness shouting for help via texts of despair and a bum in a navyblue sweater asks me for a quarter. A quarter of what? I only have a dollar and in exchange he gives me a cigarette, my tuxedo tie loose and lack, slack, that's the word I mean. The best I can come up with isn't always good enough. I want to live my creative life like a flower. Unfolding at the height and prime of brightness and attractiveness, then falling away, petals on the wind, a sweet fruit left bearing more flowers in the years to come.
"Does that analogy apply, the one about flowers?"
Blaze of neon on a sign sighted (surprisingly through car window) revealing. Fleeting fires, these lights, our life. He said,
"It works. It works. It works. It works."
"It works"
Slivers of brilliance disappearing down the bumpy boulevard, boozy older broads, (who calls them broads anymore, Pete) searching for a score in sagging clothing clothing sagging scars, and in the car (in the car, in the car) I can see my future clearly as the past, in the rearview lights in lines receding fast.
Labels: birds, broad ways narrow, broads, bums, peter st. peter, Prom, skinny legs and all rob ins
posted by DMM at 4/18/2010 11:01:00 AM
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