Nobody's blues

I guess what it means to be a writer is that you just write and write and write...

NOBODY’S BLUES

As he clinked the glass of where he was alone, the band played some saintly king scrunching the night until the end came, or until it was all over for the beggar on his last legs who would never sing again.
Women looked on from their perches and ivory boxes with pale green eyes full of secrets to end the nights into forever, for more that would come later, where the night would never end until it’s all over, for the prince to rise up a king and steal the night away until all that is left is the dance of love.
Many women took him home then until he was all of twelve feet from the ground and feeling that tonight the dwarfs would not burst out of the cupboards to spoil his fun.
Tom Waits was on the radio, and the shoe leather was all worn out, yeah; like the hound dog that came to stay and lived out back of beyond there, with nothing to do but howl.
He was feeling like he’d never sleep again.
Sometime later, on a dark Monday in the rain he knew the meaning of nobody’s blues and raised the glass of where he was alone.

BRAINLESS FOOLS

I always thought lovers woke up beside each other and stayed together for as long as they wanted, or until death took them away; and in a way that’s true; but really, love is in every sigh; every wind that brings remembering, that love is every smile that takes you home to where you belong.
Can I interest you in a brainless fool by any chance?
You know, I sat beside the Buddha once, in some hall of chanting monks, and not one of them saw me, not one looked up from their trance.
And what did the Buddha say about this?
He was just serene; not caring a fig about it.
So brainless fools are not on the menu?
Well, I’ve looked at them without staring, and saw into their souls where the dirt is kicked up to obscure everything.
Hmm; do you mean like switching the light out at midnight and laughing your head off?
No I do not mean that; well, maybe I do a little bit.
Do you understand where brainless fools come from yet?
Perhaps you could define what a brainless fool is for me; just so as I can get an angle on it to arm wrestle; or something.
I’m almost out of breath and you are asking me to arm wrestle?
Ah, now I’m beginning to understand.
I’m so glad for that…

NOT OPEN ON SUNDAYS

Where all this business is taking me I can’t say, I said and looked up to see what time it was for what I’ve said and said again: I’m not open on Sundays.
Well, it was some kind of creepy and dead every Sunday, all day long, before I would change my mind about that.
When the donut man came I took out my shotgun and looked him in the eye and said: you got something to say?
Not a thing this time of night he said; you?
Can’t really say I have, I said, and drank the next bourbon straight down.
Was there much before this, said the balanced diamond dying in the grass where the sword of god was piercing its heart.
You mean, before where we are now and before we grew so old?
Yes, exactly.
But where are we now?
I think we are here.
And where is here?
Here is where we are not.
Here is where we are not?
No, here is where we go get a shave.
I thought we were talking about something else.
I’m not sure we ever can.
I feel I have to go to New York now, see you later, and have a nice life.
So tell me, before you go, what are you doing down there?
I’m searching for some sign of intelligence.
I just had to ask, didn’t I?

Image from me and taken in Thailand. It's also on Pixabay