Me, Saloon, Ohio, Two Thousand and Eight
It might seem strange to see a man
with the blood of flowers printed
on his face, much less
lean near to him to ask for one of his stories.
That is fine, at least I am thinking clearly.
But there is such a tumult here,
many words I cannot decipher.
Nite Owl, night owl, lets go to
see the nite owl.
My friend Jake is a good guy.
Can you walk? I can walk.
One of us will make our way
home.
Thats the shit.
A man with the smell
of contemporary ale shook and held
my hand on the sleeting walk, asked for help
finding his truck
down one of these alleys.
I am not more generous than I should be.
With a weak clap upon his cheap-leather shoulder,
I sent him on a lonely way.
It takes a lot of commotion, warmth
some liquor you can afford and a piece
of empty paper to fully realize:
you would like to be left alone
but not left. A girl
in a green coat will leave though and you will need
to pee.
Rusted Root possesses the jukebox, "Send
Me On My Way" they bop, and I think that
in australia-land, there is surely a salvation
to be obtained from a croc-fighting friend
of dingos. Or a sweet-smelling bar maid
whose father didnt love her.
Maybe I am a dingo.
Maybe I am a father.
Unknown "Whitman" Peaceful
- 16 years, 9 months, 1 day ago