These short, furious bouts of being somebody are what make you who you are. If I were you, I’d plant my ass anywhere but here. Coat off. Pummeled. Eyes on fire. Hand out to shake. They don’t write songs like this anymore, played in any key I can’t sing. Wind knocked right out of you. Call for a free sample. Handouts are all over the place. Christ on a tricycle, I feel like I’m at the Lawrence Welk Show here. And how late it is getting to be for those who need to get home. Being nice to a lonely guy. Being rude to the scales and scores that nobody’s oboe was playing. It was alright without me. But never without you. A strangled way to sneak up on who and what we were. And if there’s a when to have then let’s have it then. Right’s snarling yes as long as it risks what it does. In insistent camaraderie for the kitchen voices we use if the coolness represents us less true. What doesn’t do. Out of conversation. One more head in the roped-off section. The radio’s wires say that rushing’s rest is better used up than done. My for is in your to, still. And the paper doesn’t show up at the door in the morning anymore. The rounds are robbed of routine. Get a hold of a pastor. I’ve got a soul in desperate need of some saving. In the purple we loaned each other the canted smiles it took to profit remembering better. Just the better said without the less of it. I am not so laughable in my sincerity anymore, at all. Canned and stumped. But nobody’s looking. There’s no need to feel bad at all, Sweet’N Low. Shoot out their eyes and forget the ways you’ve felt. When there’s nowhere left to meet. We have these scars and shambles to fall back on. And me? I do it all the time. Where’s the look you’re not so used to having anymore? It’s past. It deliberates in the cacophony of the room’s dial tone. I won’t quit loafing after aspirations. It fits too well. A brief description will not follow. Not any time now. Not any day. For the first of all the last times, let’s just have it out. Far’s the only in, anyway. Splinters of St. Christopher in your cuts. It was more of a circus around here, let me tell you. Or don’t. The agony in the garden of olives is all yours for the giving. I’m worse for it, of course. But, you know what? I still get sad at times. Just like anybody else does. Ripped from the dressing room. No more sparks. No more medicine. No more sharp elbows to the solar plexus. You are just gnarled fingers that won’t grasp, making fun of me, getting the least of it. Retract and be able. Pull out all of your miracles for me. There is a substantial amount of nothing to commit. So many lahs to dah. And we are all out of pepper. Scabby and rough and tender through the slimmest of night’s chances. The rest of you can go to hell and back, and then to hell again. Promised to another. That’ll teach you. Born away. Let’s clink glasses to it. Vodka and holy water in the ice slivers of a skate’s blade. Let’s take another dive and get trampled with every violet in the world. In my dreams you are alive; and you are so cranky and kind to me still. Stories are just something to fall down without breaking your neck. My room’s unpaid in perpetuity. So tell me, just who do you think is singing for the rent for me now?