We tent camped by the river;

Talked to ourselves the entire ride and laughed off the questions

that repeatedly took stabs at if we were alright.

Alright is alright

but alright is a state of mind,

Right?

Having spent our last dimes on grape cigars and grape sodas

we skipped setting up the tent and let the trees canopy us from persistent downpours.

The raindrops wapping the wide leaves made the silence enjoyable and the sugar sweeter.

I’m cracked.

Slowed by the dayswimmers

and gravediggers.

Nightcrawlers and court justices.

I sold my ego to pay a parking ticket,

threw my hat into too many rings.

Question:

Is it really better to burn out

than to fade away.

I blew up.

And instead of fading away,

I tossed it,

wrapper and all,

into some trash heap gutter.

Dust to dust,

Earth to earth -

Sometimes it feels good to rid yourself of it when you can.

Sunday nights weren’t massive.

They weren’t even nights.

They were Sunday mornings that remained.

Even as the sun would fade,

The slept in clothes remained -

the coffee breath – constantly refreshed -

remained.

And the empty feeling of facing the day’s remainder in a steamy one-room

box where the TV antennae was the only non-geometric shape to meet your eye -

remained.

The floors stayed clean.

Mirrors weren’t smudged.

The words weren’t spoken.

and.

Sundays weren’t massive.

They weren’t even.

We laughed along the way -

brushing our sleeves against one another’s.

I asked silly questions —

but was only curious -

Did you like flowers?

Did you love me?

It was a crash course

that tangled us in the weeds.

You carved my initials into your inner thigh

with a jagged stem -

not being careful or cautious of your artery,

you shielded me from your actions and

the tears that clung to the corners of your mouth.

Smiling.

I always thought we belonged in some gutter -

Together.

Trading punches and clinking bottles.

Shooters, mostly.

Little vessels of strawberry wine. Or maybe something peach flavored.

Something breezy to kill the sting of the harder stuff.

Remember that time the bus driver didn’t let me on?

Said the Greyhound was no place for drunkards.

That was Memphis.

She hated my face, my stale smile.

She said it made her miserable.

More miserable than the smell of the river.

We met up with Slow Slim while he was taking the trash down to the curb.

His hair was messed and blood was gushing from the web between his thumb and index finger.

He paused a little to look at us while globs pattered and melted the fresh snow behind his bare feet.

We never talked to Slim.

We’d just walk by to catch glimpses and see if he’d smile.

Give us a toothless grin -

Or maybe wink.

When you’ve spent as much time as I have cleaning up spilled coffee and steak sauce, it’s the little things that you really begin to appreciate.

Stuffing shells, smelling empty bourbon bottles, buying books,

and burying your blues.

It’s the easy things like these that begin to define your time when you don’t know what else to do with it.

Filling notebooks with jibberish because empty pages are depressing;

and people seem to like jibberish.

Don’t they?

Milling around the capital on an overcast Sunday afternoon we leaned against government buildings, petting every dog that walked past while scouring the ground for cigarettes that still had some life left.My mind was meandering-had been all day- and about three conversations entered and quickly exited my ears.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in what was being said.

I was so interested that I couldn’t keep up.

But back then everything amazed me.

People. Thoughts. Ideas.

I don’t even like The Pixies, days of unrest, televised spelling bees, or whatever else you think I may.

I don’t know what I like.

But your opinions of me are thought through less than your decision to dine on Grape Nuts, hard-boiled eggs, and cole slaw.

Third course,

Mind field,

Battered horse,

Penetrable shield.

Limitless won’t accomplish…

Limitless won’t know…

Limitless had his head cut off by … Limitless.

Strand yourself on your own fictitious stranded plot.

Everywhere he went -

“Keep the change”

Little to no explanation

and little to no response was given by any of the involved parties.

“Keep what change?” must’ve floated through any of the recipient’s heads.

It was preposterous.

No change is possible when something is paid for with plastic.

But then they might’ve gone thinking.

Digging for a deeper meaning to what could’ve been a simple statement from a delusional man.

But maybe not.

“Keep what change?” indeed.