Happy Smiling People Holding Guns October 5, 2014Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Poetry, The Narrative, Toulouse Street.
There are few cures for emptiness that
don’t leave you full of regret in the morning.
I’m not sure how many days I have left
& responsibilities. Let sleeping bottles lie.
I want to suck nitrous oxide from your vagina
& float away but my libido has gone missing.
We watch Walking Dead instead, a calculated antidote
for the occasional temptation of going postal.
Calculator the number of dead in my email
divided by brass bands. The answer is Err.
Facebook is Happy Shinny People Holding Hands,
the worst song in R.E.M.’s entire catalog.
Walking to the hot, claustrophobic laundry room
on a blue Sunday morning of fall is a fail.
Grocery shopping during the game is not betrayal.
My enthusiasm is universally translucent.
If we both make it to the end of this poem alive
there is still something to discover: tomorrow
never knows if Monday the barrista will shyly
Cheshire smile you into the end of the beginning.