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Old song. Awful. Ghastly. GAH. What was I thinking?

Under the floorboards, the beating hear
of all you’ve forgotten to murder.
You’ve locked all the doors, but the skeletons
are beating their fists all the harder.

If that brilliant smile if your disguise,
you’d best avoid mirrors and water.
Walking through the fire has melted it
to framework and patches of plaster.

Who told you that you were beautiful?
Who said that weakness was pitifull.
That room with no air,
you’ll be so secure there,
awaiting your burial.

Old song.

When I finally die I hope you cry for a while
and visit me when you can get away.
And when I finally meet my maker’s son
I hope he smiles and says, well done,
well done, well done.

When I finally die I hope you let my body burn
and scatter me all over the front yard.
And when the kingdom comes they gather
every atom back to say, well done,
well done, well done.

And we have a boy I hope you give him all my books,
the ones we didn’t sell to fill the fridge.
And when he reads them he will see
the Jesus of the words. Reading, well done,
well done, well done.

Old song.

This packet of matches. How often have you wondered
how many it would take, how many would you waste
to set yourself on fire.

This bottle of matches. How often have you counted
in fistfuls on the counter of your imagination,
in your insomnia.

And if you’re barely getting by,
we’d never know it from the way
you walk and talk and seem to own the world.
These people you have come to fear
don’t recognize it in your eyes
or in the smile that never disappears.

Not sure if this is an old poem or an old song. In any case it’s old.

It wasn’t so long ago that you were on the payroll,
pulling at the traces and plowing the snowfall under.
But with every backward glance at the city in the distance
the yearling child turned to salt.

It wasn’t so long ago that I was calculating tenfold
money in my pocket for the shutters and the deadbolts.
But with every mislaid cent between neglected floorboards,
the yearling child starved to death.

And three old grainy photos
are all I’ve got left of you.
I don’t know what to do with them now,
but I guess I never knew.

Circa 2005:

Inauguration of new notebook with scribbles and spelling mistakes [ed: all corrected, hopefully] in a New York Starbucks. Life is officially complete with perhaps one exception. Damn, I want to kiss that girl right now. Maybe I can live here one day. That would be grande!

Same Day

It must be getting close to need, now. I took the wrong train and ended up further into Brooklyn that I’ve ever been. Now I’m at the corner of 7th Av and W 23rd St. Pretty junky. Nowhere to sit, but not too many people. Smoking a cigar, drinking Starbucks coffee. It’s really quite hot here, too. I want to buy a bottle to fill up with water. Anything to drink is boody expensive here.

Later

The subway stations are hotter than most tropical countries, but this train is beautifully cool and not that difficult to write one. A bit jerky. Then again, so am I. Hopefully on the right train this time.

Later

It’s probably around 2pm now. I don’t have a watch. Nick and I are outside some sort of convention centre. A giant glass building filled with cool, cool air. Which is nice, that. It’s a record-breaking heat wave here. Speaking of which, Hell’s Kitchen Flea Market seems to have disappeared. Sad, that.

Later

Back at the hostel again — cool air! And even though ti smells vaguely of garbage in here (or is that some sort of sanitizer?), it’s good to be back. The subways were crazy in Manhattan. Weekend, everything closed for construction and such. We saw Ground Zero, which seemed to be in the process of being rebuilt or something. Also saw Staten Island from across the Hudson. A rather interesting thing — water and then suddenly buildings. Wish I could check my email or something, but I could even get to the hotspot I used yesterday. Annoying.