I’m real sick of all the normal talk in this town.
So dig this:
I stroll into a convenience store wild-eyed
as any nightmare; and I trade
a satchel of moirai eyes and could-be prophecies
for the cheapest, darkest beer I can pry
from the cooler’s scary fingers
at this late hour.
By the time I get home my heart’s bluebird
is already drowning.
Just a damn lightweight these days. Or so my fates say.
As usual, the violin and the guitar have been into
another tuning fork fight over why the
power for the amp won’t come on.
And one of em popped a string before
cracking the other’s head.
It’ll get nursed with apologies splattered on
a pill-shaped pillow tonight while I
find the loneliest room in the house
to write a very long metaphor in story form
on the ethics and morality
of the mass acceptance of social stigma.
I cast Lemmy’s Rickenbacker as the main protagonist.
I pit it against an angry village of cereal
all armed to the teeth in a riot
and ready for another attempt to march
on a Frank Zappa album.
(Damn cereal never stood a chance.)
As I go to write the musical score
I stretch wide above the piano;
drunk, lanky, and weary
like a dope fiend scarecrow
in the fields around Greenwood, MS
waiting to croon with Robert Johnson.
I lean in and tell her,
“There’s a wolf in my heart for you, baby.”
I write a real slow song and end it like this:
but I really ain’t no prodigal son.
I ain’t nothing to be proud of
when the day is through.
But you and mom are gonna be alright
and I’m sorry I won’t make it home again.
But there’s just a lot in life I gotta do.
And if you won’t cry when you think of me
I’ll smile when I think of you.”
And then I nestle myself way down into
the hole in my acoustic guitar.
Down where the light never reaches.
And I do what anyone does
when they don’t believe in a damn thing
and they got no one to pray to…
I wait for nothing.
[Nathan McCool is actually so cool, I can’t stand it. You can find the haint, dusk, and sizzling of his concrete snares on Instagram, or at his blog, Mist of Melancholia.]