I’m Tired of Murder Mysteries

I’m Tired of Murder Mysteries

Weightlifting (off-my-back) magazines…

A little, itty-bitty, TV set…

Cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes,

rest quietly on the kitchen counter.

Regrets (no)?

…with time being just a phase;

and logic a form of rhythm,

Knowledge gets in constant conflict with Wisdom.

 ****

One shot of sad sunshine (going down!),

it hurts but I don’t mind.

-this is what lost ambition looks like-

The leaves they fall away from tress;

because, they’re tired and lazy;

-a hammock, a breeze, and a Long Island ice tea-

who can fight gravity?

It keeps me down; but, I just want to get fucked up.

****

Cut short like mom haircuts and cut-off jeans,

worn by those who in them shouldn’t be seen…

Your secrets’ safe(s) got broken,

opened, my eyes,

to pretty clean white lies.

Clean Coal®, Clean Coal®,

black, black,

Clean Coal®.

Online screens fight constantly with printed papers and magazines.

****

Please remove my sins,

like the tops of Appalachian Mountains.

I’m still trying to figure out how to exist,

within the context of this:

shit is fucked up and bullshit.

People are just watching each other,

kill each other.

I’m tired of murder mysteries.

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A Sea Change

The following passage reminded me of someone I once knew. I read this awhile ago and marked it in a notebook I’ve recently come across.

Lois Gould, A Sea Change, p. 32, Simon and Schuster 1976

“Still, most of her friends eventually found her trying. She demanded too much attention. Clinging to other people’s lives. Lives she considered more lustrous than her own. Like a drowning victim, and then kicking and thrashing to deny that they were merely letting her hang on. She professed utter devotion and utter contempt for some people at the same time. And she almost always got away with it, for a little while. Showering everyone with her poisonous favors. Telephoning constantly; sending flowers and small thoughtful gifts; confessing her own most shameful flaws so that others would be disarmed and tell her theirs. She collected people’s fears, sins, sexual ineptitudes, failures and misfortunes, and crawled inside them for as long as she was allowed to stay. It was a living.”


Could never find Waldo because he was always hiding out in a dark bar somewhere drinking and feeling sorry for himself…

And to think I spend so many hours as a child looking in all of the wrong places…