In another life
we could've been rockstars.
But this is not that life.
Far from, in fact --
I'm just a poor banker's son.
I've got the keys to the car,
but I don't know where I'm going.
Labored breathing
keeps me bound to the bedroom.
And I don't eat
as much as I did
when I was young and hungry.
I'm pulling back the shades,
but never sleep when I'm angry.
Counting blue jays
from the trunk of my car.
But I keep spacing out
and losing track.
I force myself to start again.
Forgetting every conversation
that I have ever had.
Wanted to be a doctor,
so I could hang frames on the wall.
But I left in the rust,
withdrew my name
from office registries.
I broke through every cabinet.
Can I borrow twenty dollars?
I was offshore
for a while but I landed back here.
With a harpoon grabbed from
the hallway closet.
A handmade truth said: The Spine Is Mine.
I found some willing men
and hunted down a white whale.
We heard crickets
and both felt foolish for a while.
On a fire escape
with a bottle of rum,
we wished that we could talk of that town.
I'm an ideas man.
You're the pretty language and meaning.
Flashing lights
replacing smoke and city heat.
We lost our keys,
we searched our pockets deep.
And left the house with an axe to grind.
Not believing for a while.
But I want us believing the same thing.
Holding tongues
is not that hard to do.
Wrote my dissertation
on the art of
knowing when to.
Sometimes a boy is better.
Better seen than heard.
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