Tom
Waits etches in the Days Inn hotel room
in Murray, Kentucky,
each of the black, sleepless nights,
discussions of anything and everything
and nothing over poker chips and tequila.
Of Chekhov and Blake and tired old affairs.
Of clichés, childhood stories and orgasmic delight.
Our tongues bloody, we revisit, rehash, reopen.
We expand.
Nothing too sacred, brilliant writing the exception.
We create lyrics and jokes, strum banjos, guitars and mandolins,
blow kazoos in the Dunce corner
with our busy hands, cold feet, little ears and echoing laughter.
We speak the language of the damned.
Another gulp of gold beer, a crunch of Cheeze-its.
“Boobs are the new ankle.”
We endearingly call ourselves, “Freaks!”
I mean, “Artists.” “Freaks!”
First experiences for some,
“Fuck you, motherfucker, I’ve lost my laundry money.”
We do nothing and everything.
Present each moment.
It
is perfect.
My mind stretches, vivid images color my dreams.
It’s the witching hour, and I
EXPLODE!
Masks falling,
falling away.
I am naked and new, trembling, brimming with words.
I am alive!
