The little bubbles slide down the slender neck of the bottle;
Backlit by the screen, choral voices blast me in the face—
Loud and incessant; it might be one voice but it sounds like several,
It’s really hard to tell. Now it’s opera and it’s beautiful, reminds me of Fitzcarraldo.
Moments like these play sweet in my ears; the beer tastes good on my tongue.
Conquistador of the Useless
I need to read more books on philosophy.
I hope I’m visited by God someday like Philip K. Dick.
I’d write my very own exegesis about it; it would probably be long-winded
The violins are scaring me.
The first five pages done—three beers to go.
I’m trying to open my eyes but they won’t open.
Keyboard hot under my hands,
Guess I’ve written a lot today.
I feel like drawing on my hand.
I could draw something like a castle.
Choral voices will decorate my arms,
Like the voices of alarm;
I like the idea of voices that can write or paint on a body—
Say things just how I wanted them said.
I’m not sure you’re sufficiently moved by these words.
I used to do laps around jail cells, checking the bars.
I one time couldn’t take what I was feeling and balled my eyes bloodshot and wet
Into a bathroom closet.
Two beers left.
My son pats me on the shoulder blade.
The head there feels clouded and sick, full of sore-throat ache and watered-down brains.
I need to write a piece for the paper, got two or three days left—no calls from coaches.
One beer left.
It looks like fake snow on the ceiling.
Hitchcock is staring at me.
I’m out of beer.
Football games are hard to cover.
My keyboard has burned my hands;
I guess I wrote a lot today.