I'm Not A Writer

a typist is taping out quiet symphonies with quick and pronounced strokes,

The lights are dim and most of them are off,

Almost too loud to hear the white noise from the radiator,

Ghosts born in the center of simple sounds,


It slinks through the cracks snake like and hypnotic,

dancing with the paint on the walls,

Burnt out butts in the glass tray are charcoal gray,

Fancy bar match books tango with their devil dive bar friends,


I'm not a writer,


I drink and chain smoke cigarettes,


Listen to jazz every once in a while and pretend to play guitar,


Voice like Elvis getting strangled by a boa constrictor named bow-tie,


And I can't ever really relax you know,

On the train,

At work,


There's never anywhere to look,

I can't stare at a forehead or left shoe without being the ultimate weirdo,



I'm looking at the god-damned train map for ccccccrhist sake!

So what i've got sunglasses on at 6:57 p.m. on a Tues. night at the beginning of April,

It's a big city,


I'll never see these strangers again,


then it dawns on me that this is just the tiniest of worlds,

and i'll probably run into half these people in the bathroom at some bar on any-street ave.,

they'll all be in there,

talking about how that plaid shirted man was staring at their left shoes and foreheads wearing sunglasses at 6:57 p.m. c.m.t on a Tues. night at the beginning

of April,


Then there i'll be,

Not writing, pretending to play guitar, drinking,chain smoking cigarettes alone


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and_hera_met_zeus's picture

soaked with brutal self honesty

its so genuine and real, i love it.