What I Was Thinking, That Breakdown
Olympia clung to our bodies—Probably cut—Anything made this dream—It has curtailed the customers of fossil organisms—Ran into my old friend Jones—So badly off, forgotten, coughing in 1950 movie—Vaudeville voices hustle sick dawn breath on bed service—Idiot Argument spattered backwards—I nearly suffocated trying on the defendant’s breath—That’s Olympia—Nitrous flesh swept out by your voice and end of receiving set—Brain eating birds patrol the low frequency brain waves—Post card waiting forgotten family members
Sad hand down backward time track—Olympia clung to our bodies from Division to 5th Ave on camphor sweet smells of cooking paregoric—Burned down the republic—The druggist in the back of darbys—Olympia mirrors of things you forgot about—He threw in the towel, morning light on cold coffee—
Junk kept nagging me: ‘Lushed in the Mideast, I knew you’d come scraping bone—Once a junky always spongy and rotten—I knew your life—Junk sick four days there.’
Stale breakfast table—Little cat claws—Pain and death smell of his sickness in the room with me, not talking—Three souvenir shots of Olympia—Old friend came and stayed all day—Face eaten by ‘I need more’—I have noticed this in the New World
And little e moved in at that tin box during the essentials—Stuck in this place—Iridescent puddles, greasy hipsters, the police at the corner store raising an eyebrow at your slurred speech and second six pack—Bubbles of memories still saying ‘we live up there!’ a hundred years from now—A rotting teak wood balcony propped up by all of those dark morning bus rides—pain and death decay—took possession of me—All I want is out of here—Hurry up please—Flashes in front of my eyes your voice and end of the line.
That whining Olympia clung to our bodies—I went into Priest Point Park on final rites, four years down—Nitrous flesh under this canopy swept out by your voice: ‘Driving Nails In My Coffin’—Brain eating birds patrol under the spreading chestnut tree—Dead post card waiting a place forgotten—The junk smells drowned voices and end of the line—That’s Olympia—Sad movie drifting in islands of rubbish, black tar haircuts and fish people waiting a place forgotten—Old photographer trick tuned them out.
‘I am dying?’
Flashes in front of my eyes naked and sullen—Rotten dawn wind in sleep—Death rot on Olympia dusk where the pine bristles flap.
Sad hand down backward time track—Olympia clung to our bodies from Division to 5th Ave on camphor sweet smells of cooking paregoric—Burned down the republic—The druggist in the back of darbys—Olympia mirrors of things you forgot about—He threw in the towel, morning light on cold coffee—
Junk kept nagging me: ‘Lushed in the Mideast, I knew you’d come scraping bone—Once a junky always spongy and rotten—I knew your life—Junk sick four days there.’
Stale breakfast table—Little cat claws—Pain and death smell of his sickness in the room with me, not talking—Three souvenir shots of Olympia—Old friend came and stayed all day—Face eaten by ‘I need more’—I have noticed this in the New World
And little e moved in at that tin box during the essentials—Stuck in this place—Iridescent puddles, greasy hipsters, the police at the corner store raising an eyebrow at your slurred speech and second six pack—Bubbles of memories still saying ‘we live up there!’ a hundred years from now—A rotting teak wood balcony propped up by all of those dark morning bus rides—pain and death decay—took possession of me—All I want is out of here—Hurry up please—Flashes in front of my eyes your voice and end of the line.
That whining Olympia clung to our bodies—I went into Priest Point Park on final rites, four years down—Nitrous flesh under this canopy swept out by your voice: ‘Driving Nails In My Coffin’—Brain eating birds patrol under the spreading chestnut tree—Dead post card waiting a place forgotten—The junk smells drowned voices and end of the line—That’s Olympia—Sad movie drifting in islands of rubbish, black tar haircuts and fish people waiting a place forgotten—Old photographer trick tuned them out.
‘I am dying?’
Flashes in front of my eyes naked and sullen—Rotten dawn wind in sleep—Death rot on Olympia dusk where the pine bristles flap.
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