troubled sleep in times of all antlers

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Irrevocable stints spun hustled, less than a car horn. I remember when the stars arrived, all humble and fully formed. A million years of dim junk. The slunk of rain. An iron gate’s twinging peal pleads with the scent of umbrellas unfurling. And remember me telling you about the glut of curvy wayfarers in my past? Going on about inveterate gum-chewing days and of-all-the-gin-joints nights? Wrestling wrinkled silk neckties away from pencil-necked jokers. A real damn gimme if you ask this here lawn-worm salesman. Your tax dollars hardly at work. Taps played for the senator’s wife, who would’ve left him for a Parcheesi-playing trumpeter if the druthers ever came to being hers. But we’ll let the moonlight decide whose dalliances to run ragged up the flagpole. Campy moves with an embattled front. Besides, I don’t even have a day job to quit. Returns get sent unpacking while the hobnobbing goobers all sniff the prize. This side of town, used to be every girl had a copy of Ashbery’s poems on her shelf. Now they’ve all got Whoopee cushions and pleated pants. Choppy rain whisks the concrete slick. Purred remorse sings the buses electric. A wince. A shrug. A grubby hallelujah for the washed away makeup of yesterday’s frown cues. Cures for boredom abound while the good-hair days never last. Sighs are a lousy buck’s cheap cry. Do not walk outside of the crosswalk. Do not roll haphazardly like an aimless tumbleweed down fire-scarred hills. Stay content, numb, found. Whatever makes the news cycle roll. But for me? For me it’s mercy, guilt, anxiety. The symphony of a reckless trinity on guard at all times. No time to relax. Binge. Purge. Roll over. Stand up. Sit. Good person. Now, adhere to this: watch TV and shove sugary snacks down thy gullet. There. Needs being always too much met. The sun slumps off to its thankless duty. The tides wrought with plastic and mercury. Against the grain: this gist of being lost. Tar-scented hallucinations from the gristly side of nowhere. A success in the byproduct of selling out and out. Can’t fathom for the death of me where those dollars go. And go and go until you’re whipped silly with failure’s pistol. A here with no there was a when for us in the dross and lees and lagan of where nothing ever begins. So put a doe in the high beams and some bison jerky in your welt pocket. I’m taking all prisoners and ransacking an oil refinery. Beats being used and normal. Besides, who’s counting on me when there are no dreams left to count on? I’m upping everyone’s ante. Take less prisoners and build more schools. So much depends upon the steepness of the stairs, you see, and about where you’re falling down them from. My headdress grows heavy with wear. I’m giving you all the outs in the ballpark, okay? I’ll tell you, as far as I’ve ever known, nothing beats pretty girls with dirty thoughts. That’s that. Now, please excuse this poor excuse for a decent outfit. I’m going to tie one on until I’m about as useful as a dug-up corpse. This here bell’s all rung out.

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