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.
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.