In Case You Were Wondering

I write according to the soundtrack.

I sit and wax poetic
so pretty girls
will read pretty words
and think that I'm pure
magic.

A prophet of predicate
with the answer to why
and where to go from there.

But nobody continues
to write nothing and
that face in the mirror still
can't seem to just
let
it
go.

Mik would chastise me for
latching on-
to what came
before.

But I've been dry since I left and
all this clarity is crushing.
Regrets man, regrets;
this cursed awareness
of how I'm as selfish as
a dog in a
cat
house.

As if to say if I'm not dying
then I have nothing left
to
give.

I'm only best when
I'm grains of sand in open hands
sliding to the floor with
dust and dirt
and swept
away.

I've been up nights drowning
in what ifs:

What if I had been a briefcase fisting,
double-breasted,
upright citizen and
you'd found me
then.

Would that have fit the bill?

Did I just miss the on-ramp as I drove down
the highway
drunk as
hell?

Think of all the North Face fleece I
could have bought for Tanner,
Constance, Madison, and
Tad.

Wedding poses instead of mugshots framed
in gentle repose
against reclaimed driftwood armoires
and vases full of
seashells.

But instead ol' pops was behind the bars
after he'd been inside them for too
long.

But then all of that beauty -
that all night honest beauty,
I wouldn't know a damn thing about
the bottom.

Nothing to say at cocktail parties,

"No thank you, I've
had
enough."