The bath water’s a little bit blue.
I can’t tell if it’s from my hair
or from my heart, which sings the blues
like Frank Sinatra with a cold.
On Sunday morning,
I read the news in bed
and in the frozen food aisle,
I lived through an arctic winter.
Ice animals took shape because no one
knows how to close a door around here
where children press their faces up to the glass
and pretend winter comes to California.
The linoleum floor took on the aspect of Eden
and I waited by the ice cream and frozen hospital dinners
for free food samples,
On Sunday evening, I read all night and
babbled in the morning about the Minotaur
and minor gods,
like minor wounds.
Morpheus died a hundred years ago
and left legions of insomniacs with an atomic bomb
and no idea what love meant
while their cities burned in mushroom clouds.
If I say I’ve spent too much time waiting at SFO
it’s only because those hours stretch long in my memory,
proving that time isn’t linear
like liars and bankers say,
and planes never land on time,
so I’ll listen to pirate radio coming out of the desert
and watch the domino row
of 21st century faces.
From up here we can see the Christmas lights.
He gives me earplugs, and never calls me back.
- Pickle and Fred at Base Somewhere