the week makes me smoke.
I come out of each one down 15 lbs, dead eyed, jet packed
more full of shit than you could ever imagine.
And my bedroom,
which has that whole Iron Lung feel
fits--like a salt trunk at 6 am on Locust
Paved with December.
Honey--it's only September
and the whole thing hasn't really gotten started yet
and your band's latest effort has been met with local applause and--
But doesn't every day offer that chance to get a little more ahead of yourself?
Ben...this is great. Is it strange to say that I feel like that these days, this poem mirrors my perspective- but as usual you say it clearer and much more universally, so even me, with my narrow specific ramblings can get it and really get it.
ReplyDeletealso i miss you dude