pine

is it time to pine again?
yes, i think it's that time

you'd think with all the drugs i do, i'd be happy
that's what drugs are supposed to do, make you happy

or music at least
i'm living the dream
a professional musician
not making money, not taking money, but
nonetheless, i profess, i'm a musician
living on the burroughs adding machine fortune
such as it is
should get me through
this month, rent, anesthetics, coffee

but it's time to pine
time to puff out the concave chest
and whine

cause my life's pretty vacant
the yang needs a yin
it's getting bad, i'm writing letters to the ex
the X, she's an ex X at this point, it's ridiculous
and i forgot, she blocked my address, so my tori amos attachment
didn't get thru, my little token, monopoly money

i can distract myself, i can hallucinate
i can crawl into holes, i can put on ear-buds
download another song, another movie

after another botched opportunity
another girl that got away
hey i tried, i tell myself, but i didn't do enough
and what do i deserve, anyway?
"who do i deserve?" i wrote, above a sketch of droopy contours
on a coke-downer, one of a thousand things i tried to do
to fill the void, that sketch creeps me the fuck out
i threw it in the recycling box, like i threw away
the emails i wrote when i was high
fake sucks, sucks my soul away

and i'm reading a horribly dark but gripping novel
about an abused boy deciding to dedicate his life to God
or the idea of God, or being a saint or something
an omniscient narrator, the author's presence knob turned to 11
the boy feels Grace, but his motivation for becoming a priest
David Adams Richards tells me
is as a kind of revenge against
the girl that got away

outside the church, all he had to say was
no, i'm not gonna be a missionary, i think i'll...
but, well... there you go

good god... these games we play - okay, i'll speak for myself