everything seemed fine, car was serviced, eye doctor gave me the thumbs up, picked up a few things at the grocery, including the right ingredients for chicken pizza, traffic wasn't bad, Oscar Peterson on the car stereo, one more stop, the finest of retailers, the retailer of brewers,
"24 Sleeman Original Draught please."
The trunk was loaded and shut, I headed home. When things go smoothly, I find myself waiting for things to go wrong,
pulling out the groceries, I tugged a little too hard on the box of beer, it tore and fell over the edge onto the pavement, an explosion of froth and glass, a puddle of gold, I felt the pity filled eyes of the passers-bys,
"Oh look at that poor drunken man...he broke all his booze," they would mutter,
"Hey I'm sober! I dropped the case! Why don't you mind your own business!" I would yell.
With bloodied hands I gathered up the glass, bagged the unshattered remaining, and went in,
I put the remaining in the fridge, soon they were chilled, I popped the cap, with bandaged fingers I threw it back.
if I could collect all the things I love, put them on a shelf high above, they would be touched by no one else, I would have them there all to myself,
if I could push all these rocks from my way, I would slip on easier through the day, but I'd have nothing left to write, nothing much to say come the night,
there is something hard to realize, love is letting go of what we'd keep at our side, trying to hold what wants to fly, is as pointless as tears of regret from an old man's eyes,
day off from duty, sleeping bags, change of clothes, shit kickers, box of Slee,' pack a' smokes, slam some strings, whistle dogs cook, phone call, some directions, Olie's old man's concerned look, house party, country style, case of 50 for dinner, case of 50 for breakfast, Leppard, Ozzy, Merle Haggard, rooms and faces cloaked in smoke, spin slow then fast, rifle rack unlocked, buckshot everywhere, shot gun blasts, into the night, cowboy boots and underwear, out cold in the basement, Woodstock on the TV, somewhere in the darkness, a girl from Port Elmsley took a run at me, morning burns, empty bottles on the grass, wave to the cuz through the backseat glass, rough ride back, pull over for a vomit splash, tell the boss to hold your calls, next time you're up in the Falls.
If I have spent all my hard earned money, on my friends, on late nights, on strong drink, on passing fads, and frivolous toys, on rich foods, on nature's herb, for a feeling of peace, or the perfumed hand of a stripper, on her soft dark curves, in a darkened room, on these temporary moments, held together by laughter and argument, the energy, the healing, the religion of music, chatter and silence, business, then play, contemplation, then rest, if, but, to loosen the grip, of the constant sorrow,
the old man sits relaxed, deep into a wooden bench, the bus is nowhere, he lazily rocks to one side, and postures a serious grimace, unselfconsciously unleashing, a hard, violent fart, the sharp growl cuts through the morning quiet, shattering the peace, as it echoes into infinity off surfaces of nearby buildings, women gasp, children explode into frightened tears, birds take flight, men scramble, choking, greedily hunting and gulping new air.
sounds like you're turning over a new leaf, well, it sounds like you're making a new plan anyway, sounds like you're looking to the future with ambition and resolve, sounds like you've grown a pair, sounds like you've got some big expectations, sounds like you're realizing that, sounds like you're concerned with feasibility, sounds like it may be a bigger challenge than first thought, sounds like you may not actually go ahead with it, sounds like you're dreaming up excuses, sounds like nothing's gonna change here...
