note to future self:
you already know
of all your fuck-ups
the departure from Bucharest,
Romania, especially at your
earthly age, well that’ll go down
as one whale-whopper of a fuck-up.
You think the vividness
of the images your memory
forced into you as you lay
after one of those emotive
moments cleared a pipe,
you think the vividness
was a random off? Better think
again. On second hand better
not. Keep avoiding those windows.
note to Time:
sorry but you’re not helping,
not this time. The only thing
you’re much good for now is
if I ever do get back over there,
I shall easily slide right into
that slot marked Dirty Old Man.
A Dirty Old Man
fumbling with his lips
and drooling on the bench
at the park or the seaside.
A Dirty Old Man
happy to be able
to pull out his crayon
and scribble dirty pictures.
note to this town:
look, you’re okay. You ain’t ugly.
You got the hills. You got green.
While some places are covered in snow
and the people are tenderly
stepping across blankets of snow
or sheets of ice and having to pull
wool mufflers around their faces,
places like Bucharest,
while they’re getting that,
here I went out on the porch
with just a sweatshirt (yeah and pants)
and I probably could’ve whipped that
off too and a couple degrees
warmer I could’ve taken
my guitar out there, plunked a few
chords – not bad for the first day
in January. So you
got nothing going against you from my point of view.
Damn traveling. Should’ve never tasted that insane
land. But I did taste that insane land.
I really feel like it became home
and the feeling I feel is the feeling
of homesickness. Bad case of it.