Imagining a Life with Her

She tells me she wants to be a baker,
that it’s been her dream since she was young.
I taste the cakes she’s prepared
and I’ll admit – she is good.
Her dream is to open a shop
and delight the city’s sweet-seekers.

I taste my new acquaintance’s sugary confection
and imagine a life with her…

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Wake in the late morning
to the smell of baking.
Roll over, and gather the pages from last night
scribbled on loose notebook paper.
Take them to the sun room, to read over.
She walks in, with a fragrant tray
still hot from the oven.
A kiss on the cheek turns my face to her.
Her smile is bright as morning sun.
“How’s the book coming, sweetie?”
she says. She lifts the steaming tray of goodies.
“Here, try one. I want to know what you think?”

“Sure,” I say, taking a cookie
and holding up the pages,
“as long as you don’t mind some reading.”

I eat the cookie
but she doesn’t read my pages
until we finish making love
and brew some coffee.

She tells me she’s an artist.
She’s always wanted to illustrate children’s books.
Asks me if, maybe someday,
she could illustrate a book of mine.
I look at her smile, glowing in the light
of a blue, neon beer sign,
and think; Shit, why not?

I brain-storm ideas
for a modern children’s fiction classic,
and imagine a life with her…

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We wake begrudgingly, together,
late in the day, in our studio.
We kick aside the empty bottle of wine
and decide to paint our bodies
while the drunk still lingers.
Paint is smeared across our naked bodies
and we and roll over blank canvases
layed across the hardwood.
Nude, exhausted, I detach
and light the day’s first cigarette
and brew coffee.
Nude, she finishes her newest piece
with delicate brush-strokes,
as I watch her, and create poetry.
We stand together, nude,
admiring our new creation.
I read her the poetry I wrote,
and we crack another bottle of wine.

I imagine my life
together, with another.
For some reason,
the dream never manifests.
Damn life, damn reason,
damn the year, and
damn the season.
Maybe we could be happy
if we wait, if we work,
if we try, if we give up,
if we move,
if we just stay here.

The truth is
I’m tired to death.
And want you to be tired too.
You, the beautiful face
that peers at me through candle-light.
We could both go to bed together
with a bottle and a dream,
and sleep in late
for the rest of our lives.

BSB

 

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Greasy Spoon Day-Dreaming

In a diner on the side of the highway
my shaking hand pours coffee, flips burgers
as my cigarette takes orders at the bar.

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We have hot soup-du-jour, burgers, and eggs
for the hitchers, truckers, and farmers
who dust themselves by the door
and chat about the weather.

Doris DeLynn, with her big hair, and round hips
serves Salisbury steaks, with cole slaw, and hash.
Her make-up cracks when she winks an eye.

We stay open all night, almost every night.
Drifters come and go with bindle in hand.

Pastel blue table-cloths weep over potted petunias
plucked fresh from the little garden I got out back.

Every other day, mood willing, Doris takes me.
I flip the sign around in the door, and we romp
a sweaty, sticky mess in the old, dusty office.
Doris’s perfume stings my tongue when I mash my face in her neck
as I picture prom queens, and old flings from a lifetime ago.

The day arrives, when Doris leaves me for good.
She trades me in for a salesman, who drives a big Ford
and carries a card, a briefcase, and such.
She’ll move to the city, and grow into a salesman’s fat wife.

I’ll grow older, and more bitter, until the day I shoot myself
seated at the desk, in the office, where Doris used to take me.

And, I suppose, no one will come to that old diner again.

BSB

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Original artwork by Eric Sokol
Photograph by Gregg Obst

Rust

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if my hands were the limbs of my mind
I would understand women

if my tongue could speak the words
and emotion
lapped from your cunt
then I would know you inside out

if you could hold my cock
like something more than a toy
maybe we could be happy

perhaps
if we try

we can be people to one another
instead of locks, and keys,
and rust in-between

-BSB

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Not Yet

Quit? Ha!

Have I quit yet?

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Even when I lost my ID, and my money?
When I didn’t have a home?
When I was sleeping in a train yard?
I didn’t have a dollar, or 18 for the ferry
card-board signs and spider-bites
heartbreak and assault
Haven’t swam in the Atlantic
or eaten a scorpion
or swung on a trapeze
but I’ve lived a life
and I’m not afraid to keep on living
so

bring it on

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because I’m not going anywhere

BSB

Hummingbirds

It just didn’t make sense. Not yet at least.
Questions buzzed his skull like hummingbirds on a vengeful tear, and he had not the answers with which to sate them.
Perhaps if he drank enough, they would come. Perhaps if he sat at the bar long enough, the world would simply move on. Perhaps, he thought and laughed to himself, if frogs didn’t have wings or whatever they used to say. Fuck.

BSB

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Eulogy for Woody Lee

Chapter One: The Great Gig in the Sky
December 24th, 2012
London, UK

1.

The greatest rock guitarist this undeserving world ever knew is dead. He died three days ago. Doomsday. The whole world was supposed to end. For Woody Lee, it did. Continue reading