may 18th, 2009

consistency

Some people cower in the face of consistency and fear it will stifle all creativity.  It’s a shame, I guess.  Without consistency I cannot be inconsistent, and I live off of brief inconsistent decisions and nights.  I must establish a routine before I can break it.  I must earn that Monday night bottle of wine.  Without work I am not able to play.  It’s so backwards to think that what I loathe most is responsible for this poem and the one before it.  I cannot exhale without that initial feeling of panic.  I don’t want to just write, I need so much more.  And tonight, I need ambient music and beer.

 

bookshelf

It was an air conditioned nightmare, and endless black spring without feathers, women, or blue lanterns.  I was told if I stood still like the hummingbird the trial would end soon and I could go back home to cannery row.  I heard screams from the balcony late in the evening and felt so alone playing the piano drunk.  I ordered ham on rye during my naked lunch and daydreamed about life back in Bunker Hill as the sun rose.  A mockingbird flew over the monkey house as I dangled in the Tournefortia high on Kentucky ham.  Such a lovely way to waste time with the phantom tollbooth.