At night, in the dimmed life crave house
they limp through a dance and scuffle
with a conscience half-drowned away
in molasses and reds.
There's no argument left. Just the one thing
they've grown too old to forget.
And I sit.
And I listen to the dried-out last breath voices
as they fidget and speak between sips.
Because I am tired of know-it-all bullshit.
I am the naive journalist.
I am the novice.
You have to hear from the criminal ear yourself
if you still don't have it.
And I haven't grown that crooked edge yet.
Oh, but I am a crook for a habit!
The lamps hang low and make shadows,
fingers wagging back to me on the tables.
And my lips to this bottle,
a sour kiss from a girl I will never catch.
She is a carved ivory box
and holds nothing.
A stand in model for my 25th.
She brews her past into my future as I
swallow. Hell, I choke down every bit.
And the lifers introduce themselves.
They breathe down our necks and soak
in the scent of a heart soon at rest.
An exciting ritual for the stumbling dead.
An opportunity none the less.
I get carried away. Unconscious.
Laid under the covers, a fresh cotton casket.
Buried alive but not alone.
Clothes strewn across a foreign floor.
And here I am, still the journalist.
Though, I cannot ever be a novice