Old habits die hard, and some traditions go with them. The sun setting takes an hour, but what’s an hour to an eon? We’ve been watching the world turn, but the world’s been turning before we were ever here. But now that we’re here, the world’s burning. There are valleys full of ash in my lungs from coffee, god and cigarettes, and after afternoons pontificating isolation and the meaning of it all. And I feel like a mountaineer, backpacks full of baggage, climbing up ridges on a globe of meaningless conversation. I excel at small talk with big words, trying to sound intelligent but knowing I’m none the wiser than the next guy. And words aren’t the only thing my tongue is good with. I can tie a knot with a cherry stem, but I’m really bad at taking them apart. See, sometimes my words get me in a tangle that it’s hard to just get out of. Sometimes, I cut the cord. Unexpectedly gone like unplugged ear buds. Some thief just snatched your purse, your phone, and your apathy. I promise to never be “yeah, I know that guy. he didn’t really say much.” I’d rather be what I am, “Yeah, he’s that self-serving, sarcastic son of a bitch.”
I keep running my mouth, but I’ve grabbed your attention in the gravitational pull of the pretty pictures painted with my sloppy poetry. I’m lighthearted, with heavy undertones. Like a hot fudge sundae. All I can hope is that I’m as welcome as ice cream on a summer day.