If I could go back in time
I wouldn’t change a thing I’ve done
or didn’t do
I wouldn’t stay in, the night I met you.

I would travel to the time of the beats
How nice it is to imagine “ leaving town”
with no trace
except the ones I choose.

To live in a motel
Come and go as I please
Smoke cigarettes and drink beer
Eat the food without the junk

Wander to different towns
Taking odd jobs
Meeting different women
They don’t have to be beautiful

Never getting too close
or too familiar
Putting out my thumb
never getting left behind

I don’t need big lights
or white beaches
American small towns
and their niches

In a time people still ramble
To live offline
Call home from a phone with a cord
And say “ I’m doing fine.”

Her copper hair and her ******
ankles
As she smiles at the rats
I smile at her and she catches me
and looks at me like I’m creepy
Takes off her sweater
and ties up her hair
Drops her lipstick on the platform
my hope is reborn.
Not for me
and not for her
She looks like a *****
and maybe I am a creep
But a hope that maybe tonight
i’ll be able to sleep.

What if this is the
best it will be
and it's not good enough

Pluck a woman off
the street and
plunge my tongue down
her throat

Romance a thought
feel the breeze
clear the mind
and it’s not good enough

Happiness is fear
If I try to ride it, I’ll choke
A rise to a fall
A cancer to a hope

What if it’s never
as good
as it was when
it wasn't good enough

She reads Agatha Christie
Taking breaks
To imagine what the weather is like in France

She opens the window to feel the storm
I imagine her glasses fog up
And when she blinks
Her lashes clean them like windshield wipers

She’s cynical about love
And foreign to the touch
She shuts out all the lust
That's range. Porcelain to dust

When she is overcome
It’s with a demon
From a console
Raging to life like a tantrum

If I could have her any way
I’d take her covered in fake blood
In the foyer of a haunted house
Mounted in a ripped up blouse
Her lips matching the color
Of the dye in her hair
Dip my romantic in her cynicism
Keep the window open to let the city listen.

Wouldn’t it be beautiful,
if I could stay this way
in this room.
With a good book
and two dogs.
A hot meal
and free ****.
Some cigarettes
and a Bukowski,
looking at all the stars around me.
No need for a woman,
and far from perfection.
Fourth quarter, game seven.
A hot shower, and clean laundry.
No ***** and no drugs
no god and no one.
Content on living with deep blues.
Wouldn’t it be beautiful
if I grow old enough
to hate my tattoos.