The Laying of Wreaths

These memories of youth recede further into the sunset with each passing day, days that seem so old now that they could be sepia tinted in the bursting of the dotcom bubble, the time of hand over fist money and living hand to mouth, these days that make up part of this colorful tapestry known as a lifetime, a bright and dangerous corner embroidered with blood and sweat and laughter, and i keep saying i'm going to write it all down but as we know the days can slip away faster than a poor man's money, these days strung upon days, Raskolnikov's Blues and Goodbye to the Billy Goat, these tales that have been spun in bars and park benches and lying sweaty in bed next to some strange female, they are there and they are floating through the ether waiting to be gathered up like so many lost flowers and planted in the most meaningless of places...

A woman who claims to love me was chastising me from across a wooden picnic table painted white, she said i could talk to anyone, and apparently this bothered her, i stated i could listen as well and by this statement she was not amused, maybe angered but not amused and as i stood and gazed at the beautiful drops of water beading on the amber bottle there was nothing left to do but listen and gaze off into the trees and dream of the clouds i could not see, as there was no use in defending the indefensible, it was best to take the switch and show as little pain as possible, and it was not my gig and i wandered aimlessly like a ghost, the cold beer and hot sun my only lovers and i dreamt back to those days strung upon days and these days stringing upon days and i said to no one in particular that it's time to write it all down, to make empty promises to every cat in the house, and you will succeed yes you will indeed at least that's what the man said, and why don't we stand up and yell bullshit? we'll just have to let each and every one of us define the S word in whichever way their heart desires and then it won't much matter, it won't much matter at all...