inspired by the character of the same name from the wallace stevens’ poem “the man with the blue guitar”
your love is like sniffing glue in a playground at midnight your love is like running thru hell with naked feet your love is solving quantum math with broken fingers and broken toes 400 million trillion blackholes in this universe all of them in denver all your accidents end in denver you’ve got lilacs and postcards in your pocket you’ve got asphalt in your hair your love is playing with snakes you burn your bridges while you cross them you burn your candle like you hate candles your love is like a puddle of gasoline and a dry well of tomorrow you can swallow your heart and start over all your bullet holes are filled with black static you can play a blue guitar with blue fingernails a heartbeat and a bruise, a heartbeat and a bruise you can play a mean tambourine you can play a lost goddess searching for the one-of-a-kind rainbow in a special raindrop in a random storm you can play dumb your love is like the blue guitar you drag around by the neck heartbeat and a bruise, heartbeat and a bruise 400 million trillion broken hearts in denver all of them yours you play dirty pool and you’ve got dice up your sleeve your laughter is clattering and witchy itching all the right spots but your soup is cold no one knows where you came from your star name is paper-mache angel your earth name is downward spiral your eyes are haunted gloomy kamikazes you drink kamikazes you throw kamikazes at everything that gives you pain your love is throwing side-eye at the world your love is a one-eyed horse walking backwards in a blizzard your love is like rust eating a truck parked in a ditch adjacent to a junkyard your love is like looking for a black cat in a dark room that ran away years ago chasing blackbirds into blackholes in the darkness of denver your love is something unspeakable mythological whisper and rumor non-sequitur more than and less than and other than true
notes: not sure if this is publishable anywhere today. where are all the wild child journals of my youth? my search for publications i really like and might print this kind of thing is way, way too short (actually, blank). any suggestions? why does art today have to be so fucking civilized? definitely going in the next chapbook though.