Out-of-Towner

I don’t care anymore
about getting too old to finally fuck
my way to hank moody heaven legend status.
or to own a million, in cold, hard
outright loose change.

I might still love a collection or too,
but its no longer
part of the problem of commercial art
or piracy, or produced with the
loose change I have on me,
as long as it has memories
it is better than gold.

I’m all about sharing.

Knew this kid who would have early morning after parties,
turn his speakers on bust and face em out the windows
because I suppose like me, he thought,
what if the people haven’t heard Miles Davis

or in his case some horrible mix off a
tv satellite Dance station,
but whose accounting for taste?

I’m worried about not getting all the words down now.

There is a poem in every trip
to the local gas station coffee shop.

The Ambulance drivers behind me
chattering with the headset.

The man ahead insisting he still pay for something
while the pleasant girl on the till insists,
each time her insistence
tilts further into inferred aggravation,
or at least annoyance.

They look like out of towners, mom and pop
and the ‘lil teenager out to the East Coast,
check out the Jelly Bean rows
and the other recent acquisition
of culture by tourism bureaus.

I do what we all do in local holes,
secretly wish to switch with them,
go elsewhere young man,
just get the fuck out.

And not
because it is unpleasant,
although this neighbourhood is
half- elderly half amenities
few skeets and a few good people,
just because I am afraid of
being anywhere too long,

forgetting there is always somewhere else,
there is always somewhere else,
it can never get bad, you will not go mad,
because there is always
somewhere else.

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