The Queen, snowed-in, stopped for
Cigarettes and milk
Then drove another hundred. 
The Governor told her not to. 
I suppose I did too.

But it's two weeks later and 
I'll be ****** if we've heard
From her. 
Passionate about black lines,
And smaller yellow ones,
Metal arches, sweating salt
Since stained rain came,
And big green signs,
With numbered shields. 

She said, before she left, that she felt,
"Like a consequence.
Something that is constantly flaunting
How severe it is. 
A recourse, to a long-forgotten mistake,
That just learns to be dealt with."

Traversing the wasteland of white
Can teach you a thing, or 
Three. Like how you're not ready
To move upwards, if the
Phantom's shovel keeps filling
In your igloo. 

Every time she left,
I wrote myself down. 
Stories about how, when, and who
Should-Be-Growing,
And the day she lost Heyworth's smile.
I changed her name.
Poetic license, and whatnot.

It doesn't take long to 
Realize, picture or
No picture, they'll all
Still say their 1,000 words.
They earned them, when they
Caught you with the flash,
In-between dreamings. 

I don't need to hear from her.
I know what she'll say. 
A scathing remark about my advice,
A bite-back.
"Lay off the smokes. The Greyness may not claim us, 
Flagstaff, but sure as hell, has it made me paler."

I'm sick of being told that I'm 
"Not Charles Bukowski." Because, 
I never said I was.
But also, and more, because, every time,
(And I suppose I've told myself plenty too)
It's a let down. 

I want to believe
(And not in that X-Files sort of 
(I Want to Believe sort of
(way) 
That we're all Bukowski. 
We're all at least poets. 
At least we're all ***** poets,
In one way or another. 
"I'm too ****** for this *******."

But this is starting to feel like
The part in the film when I'm 
Talking to the old girl, and she says, 
"What I've said up to this point is
Pointless. Now you decide."
I'm at the part of the book 
When he finally finds her.
And yes she still loves him,
Or at least. She's loved him the whole time. 

I can turn a leather recliner
Into a throne, if need be. 
I'll tape a crown of paper together
To prove a point. 
I just happen to think
The kid getting high in my kitchen
Has a real chance at the presidency. 

(Grab this, draw a circle on the floor
With it. Fill the circle up with
Everything you know, the words
The love, the colors, the mended,
And the still open. Watch that light up
At least a universe.)

I'd hope our kingdoms
Could co-exist peacefully,
But my respect for you,
As a fellow ruler,
Would never waiver

Because you can make your crown
Of staples and business cards
And be King Bukowski if you wanted,
But at least you'd be special. 
And (at the very least),
You'd be king.

There’s God in this rain.
And he’s washing out the colors.
There’s a Greyness, worth noting,
That steals your spirit through your eyes.
There are cigarettes in the amp.
I’m home.

There’s a blur, surrounding the line
Between the edges of him,
And where they meet everything else.
His arms flailing, brain on fire,
Jamming to the song,
With just the drums around him.

She’s broken, but a non-believer.
The bane of her existence being that
She’s bearing existence, but she’s still 
Smoking union butts
She had no intention of
Signing up to receive.

I find myself longing for
Fall’s warmer whispers.
Too dried out, I’m 
Sweating through all my
Summer shirts.

We stood stateside to ******,
Saddened and somber but still
Awake, tailed by cops that were
Bored, and our parents. I remember
He wore red a lot that year.
It was all that would hide the blood stains, on his sleeves,
From where he’d stitched his heart.

Looking through cabinets to
Find old winter hats,
And auburn-stained reminders,
Of past seasons 
You’d loved and lost.
And the drives to 
Second states, for
Finding friends in unfamiliar
Circumstances, when the air
In your face is cold enough to chill,
But bitterly addicting.

And divines have prepped their
Snowy canvas, blowing the
Corpses of the crops
To the floor of their woody settings.
A fresh start for all of us God-likes, 
To crunch leaves under our 
Brand new boots.

And he’s got his records, and
Some books to go with them,
And a drawing from a bus ride that
Took longer than he’d planned for. 
And he can’t wait to show it to everyone, and
Embellish the story it told him.

She’s got her thumb out, somewhere.
Praying for a chance to write the Bible down 
On the inside of a Buick.
She hasn’t loved her mother in weeks.
She and I don’t talk much anymore.

But I’m praying too, to the
Gods I keep. And spending each Sunday
Still, all-set for snow.

So bask in the glow of your cell phone light.
Dance to the unrepeatable beat in your head.
Tread lightly where the ice is thinner,
But fear not for lack of hands
To pull you back up should you fall through.
The Greyness shall not claim us all.

Take me back to the
Ashtray, in which we burned
Incense, in the front
Of my truck

Flick your ash out the
Window. Keep an eye out for
Anyone working harder than we
Believe they should. Or danger.

Read me a story. Tell me
How he’s not what you thought.
Diffuse the red dye of your
Stained words through the air.
Breathe deep. Hold for ten.

Delete the stanzas, re-read,
Test foundation under shaky limbs.
Burn your bra, don’t turn around.
Forget.

Become the bare-footed rockstar in
His maharishi mansion.
Hating hate, with vivacious volition.
Crusade against indifference.

Retire to your riches. 
Numb out everything they’ve already said.
And have foresight, of what they haven’t.
Novus Ordo Seclorum.
Defeat the mundane.

Return to your home world. 
Return to the truck. 
Light the **** incense.
Don’t ash on the rug.

Gray waves of glowing
Boredom wash over your 
Pre-glossed eyes.

Dance, clouds!
These will serve as your instructions.
She will serve as your guide.

Hold on, for dear life. 
Sometimes the inconsequentiality,
Can send you through the shield.
Novus ordinary Seclorom