Humans Can Turn Demons Into Art

It was a Neil Young/Bukowski kind of night. A night where she cooked and I read old Bukowski aloud, sipping cold beer and laughing. Music about rivers, rainbows and cowgirls in the sand shot through the evening, ricocheting from wall to wall, marrow to mind.
It was the kind of night where humans don't let you down and the taunting totality of the past carries cadence and finally fits to rythyms.

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I have been looking at the paper long enough to know I cannot re-create you. Unlike my tried words, charcoal and spit I cannot cross you out, rub you out or dry you out. You are not a synonym, a shade or unpalatable. So what do I do with you? I will do anything to re-create you. Or destroy you. You are the enchanted, haunting wraith of my conscience, or sub-conscience, or whatever the hell else it is that distorts me. I have no idea what you are anymore, or what you meant to me. But I need you on this paper, on my wall as you are. Then I will turn off the lights and throw darts. Or enshrine you with candles. I don't know which. But one or the other needs to happen because I can't keep waking up like this. The kids are getting worried.