Lust

I decided to start writing music/poetry again. Maybe I'll have an incentive to fix my bass, too.

I meet friends at the bar.
We sip on domestic beer and watch the clusters of tired clouds
rain stars.
Which tumble down stairs downstairs into an open counter.
We watch small smart girls wear whatever they please
and buy drinks with their tits.
Time slows down and semi-trucks blare buckram dreams.
It creeps by and everyone talks low and watches facial hair grow.

But I always watch one girl,
who sits alone.
Chewing on her nervous fingers like sticks of gum
and she hums some dead Pavement song
that nobody listens to or cares about.
She wears her clothes well: denim skirts that used to be jeans
sewed together with red stitches.
And I still eavsdrop, and hear, beneath her spattered breath Pavement song
about the two room conduit shes renting downtown two blocks from here.


I think about meeting her there to talk about naps and those clouds
which poor that rain that never stops.
Or our mother's trees which bear no fruit.
Or draw pictures of Harlequin trees that scab.
I'll ask her to take a trip with me to Germany
so we can drive down the Autobahn in some rust-colored car
while talking about nothing in particular.