no good comes from seeing that house again

What makes me sick is the remembering. But still sometimes at night, when I'm riding home from the VFW, I turn seaward down the old street instead of crossing the tracks. It's silent mostly. I pedal slow and take a look at the homes. Newer trim and fences, doors have been repainted, trees have been managed and driveway basketball hoops dismounted. I get closer to 354 and tap the brakes. I roll slowly by and make sure i still recognize our old home, to be sure that it was the same childhood home that enveloped my dreams. Then I ride along, distant and hazy, those silly dreams far flung into the galaxy.

But tonight I stopped coasting by, and stopped in front of the house. I planted my feet on the ground. I took a long hard stare.

This life is a parlour trick.

You left me alone with this bottle, so fuck you

Shove. I'll even fucking scream this time. Let you see what they're after, and what it does to me when its out. What is this freedom I read about? So what if i write these words down. Does it matter to me? Not at all. I'm still half-drunk, near-crazy and full hard-on.

Does it make you feel good?

Does it make you feel good?

Do you like it?

So?

Tilt your head back now and I'll speak to you.

I don't know when i saw the moon last. Or where I was.

i'm still jet lag from july. i ate fried chicken and mash potatoes tonight.

Take that, depression!

It's what you want. Test me. with my pull. Jerk left as i bite right

And what about the rain. I

Fuckers.

At this point, if i write "I'd rather just fuck and pass out and do it some time again soon, maybe later," I'm 101. But if i tell you i am afraid