BLONDE ON BLONDE

Your breath and hair.

My knuckles scraped and bloody.

What a pair.

Lunchtime came and went with little more than hair toss in my direction.

Uninterested, you fumbled with the sunglasses that shield the world form the hurt that you only experience when there’s not enough brandy left in the bottle.

You’re a lifeguard.

I’m no swimmer.

And I only started coming to this pool because of the frozen Charleston Chews.

Quickly bored and out of candy, I went back to being a teenager.

I circled about six times – mesmerized by the sign that said you needed socks.

Just passing through it said –

As I made my third pass I thought – well, aren’t we all.

You looked cold.

Fragile.

And younger than the wrinkles that engulfed your hands, neck and face.

I managed to make my way to the trunk – mom kept emergency socks there.

Handling them over – the reflector on your sign squinted my eye as a tear rolled from yours.

Careful, now. You’re libel to soak them socks.

Without reason and without conviction, he walked into the garage and decided that Bob Dylan may not be as good of a songwriter as Bernie Taupin.

Digging deep, mentally flipping through the years and songs, he recounted that he had not once but five times (that he could recall) lost his voice screaming the words to Levon. That was three more times than he had lost his voice to Tonight I’ll be Staying Here With You and one of those times, he was sure that hash played a big role. Hash and bug spray.

As he got to the end of the argument that he instigated, from across the fence – the drunken neighbor’s radio played Walk on the Wild Side which immediately brought Lou Reed’s songwriting ability to mind which in turn called up David Bowie’s cover of Waiting for my Man.

The neighbor – passed out, teeth rotting with fruit flies hovering and circling above his head – feeding off the alcohol exiting – made him recall Shane McGowan and Fairy Tale of New York which always reminded him of Tom Waits for one reason or another.

As he continuously devolves, this cycle never ends … But it always begins with Bob Dylan.

all I want to do is spend time with my wife, family, and friends.

Run when I want.

Travel.

And see Phish. 

Simple, somewhat irresponsible, but this is all we get. 

If every day is infamous,

And I believe that they are …

I probably should’ve saved the receipt. 

Pocketed a napkin.

Or maybe picked up a tossed away penny. 

All of these memories are starting to disintegrate as the days of infamy fade –

And can now only to be recounted by graphics on show posters or the words that populate never read reviews.

Even though those house are rebuilt … the wood is warped. The foundation faulty. They’re  quickly condemned and torn down.

But beating on –

Driven by nothing.

Heading … everywhere. 

Tilly came by on a Tuesday to tell me that my teeth looked funny.

It’s cool – I’ve got a bad reputation for …

Talking about what it’s like when excitement wains and your feet get quiet,

and your reasoning … begins to slow to a wasteful pace.

Sometime, long ago, it may have been right to fix it with substance or speaking to qualifieds – now we just take leaps of faith hoping we land on firmer ground. And that our teeth don’t look too funny to Tilly.

She’s good at telling.

Dripping into the middle of a terribly forecasted year, 1987 has been an ink stain on the fabric of my being.