Here's an old one. I just found this in a box. This goes way back, to around '95.



for a girl I don't even know



You, Sketch. I

say instant, sure. At

first sight.

This, not as easy.

Whatever exists is

outside of movies.

Cut to the good.

No chance. Always

stuck in the integral,

each now leading

irrevocably to

next imperfect

next.



Even your face

won't be safe

in my mind.

What happens there

in the long

nights. Best thing

that could happen:

an earthquake, a war,

disease. Endless birds,

shadows stealing

over us.



Why say future?

This now

is the first

to matter. Is.

Isn't. Is.

Isn't.



You,

Sketch. What

you are. We met

in a dream.

The dream was real but

who I was

isn't.



How we turned

through that saloon,

raising our bottles,

God on our lips.



Winter light

sketching the

pool tables.

Us moving

past them,

like people we

never knew.

***************************************

Thinking about it, being with the girl in this poem was heartbreak from beginning to end.



I used to spend a lot of time in the Video Saloon in Bloomington, IN. It was maybe the best bar in town. It's probably still the same. After I graduated, I landscaped there in southern Indiana for about a year. I remember baking in the sun. Raking this reddish dirt, we were at some wealthy person's house way out in the country. I remember thinking how this big war was probably coming, letting the movie play out in my mind.



It really sucks to be right sometimes, even partially right.



I was wild and crazy back then, and the world was calm. It was the boom, the long national orgasm of unprecedented peace and prosperity.



Now I'm calm, and the world's gone fucking crazy. At least, our country has. Relatively speaking. I'd like to say this is just one man's opinion...but I'd be lying.



This business of having to get up and go to work really sucks, now...