These blank spaces of paper, Lyla, see?, they`re starting to feel like those endless
long stretches of road rolling up ahead when you`re 18 & driving from
in-between towns late at night, all by yourself, Bruce Springsteen blasting
from the tape deck and emptiness riding shotgun, nowhere else really to go but
home when the fuel gauge drops to rock bottom plus no one else to see, everybody`s
silhouettes moonlit as if burned out for the duration of the remainder of their
‘teen years.
Then we get into College, in, out, through just like that,
our philosophies a speck of dust, a footnote somewhere of no importance, and we
get jobs, hop from job to job sort of pretending corporate life doesn`t really
suck that bad, that it`s in fact slightly bearable, etc but it`s not, and we
lose our hair, stop running, grow a potbelly, get a girlfriend, grow a beard, buy
a washing machine, ponder of pets, lose a coupla magic words, get a life, the
comic books all laid out for the perusal of dust mites or somesuch. I wish I
could still fly but those poems, Lyla, man, all of them, they`re all gone, see?
They`re all gone and sometimes it`s late at night and I`m all by myself and I
swear to god, the falcon cannot, will not hear the falconer.
And when I finally call it quits on trying to get some sleep
I trudge on flip-flops towards the kitchen and open the oven, maybe looking for
the ghost of Sylvia Plath but it`s a microwave, fuck, and all I get is the
spirit of the twentieth century instead, like a political refugee seeking
asylum from the current zeitgeist.
It`s late November, 2012, this close to the world`s end if
you`re to believe the History Channel and I so dearly want to burn my
Smartphone on that microwave oven, Lyla…
