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confetti bombs

Casey Cole

Those clouds don’t look too hot
and I was just told that they will be here
all weekend.
Talk of storms and floods over smoke.
But the air conditioning still works;
as do my thoughts
and my car.
My stomach is turning over and over.
I can’t tell if my sickness stems from
the orange juice,
the jukebox selections,
the amount of beer I drank last night
or the fact that I cannot talk.

There’s a little girl in a green paper hat
getting ready to eat lunch.
Cigarettes are losing their appeal,
and I really don’t want to tend bar tonight.
I am so broke.
This bender needs to end.
I wonder how much longer
my front tires will last?
Maybe I should break down and
pay to get some new ones,
but that would show signs of responsibility.

Fuck my stomach.
I know it’s not the swine flu.
I’m dishing out elbows instead of handshakes.
Tomorrow, while I run in circles,
someone will walk across a stage,
and I am not allowed to be there.
My left leg is asleep,
and my work shoes look ridiculous.

Why don’t my parents smell
the filth that I drag home with me?
I wonder how much confetti bombs cost.
I wonder if I’ll ever make it to Indy,
or Australia,
or tour.

I know how to play things cool,
but it’s a lot harder than it looks.
My metabolism is a piece of shit.
I need to do laundry.

Grilled cheese:
That’s what the girl in the green paper hat
ordered for lunch.
She’s four or five years old.
Kindergarten logic of course.
Am I proud to be an American?
Am I really an artist?
Sometimes and sometimes.
I’ve been on a sweet tea kick lately.
That’s not a bad thing.

My server smokes the same brand as the graduate.
I hate the couch that I sleep on.
How many years does it take to discover yourself?
I quit all of my good habits and
cannot find the drive to pick them up again;
Like reading and writing.
Saving money.
Working out.
But my stomach is feeling better now.

I think the Bulls can do it this year.
I really do.
Sometimes I wish I was an athlete.
Sometimes I wish I was someone else.
Lately, I just wish the scholar would come around.

I found home a month ago,
but the door was locked.
So I’m still just sitting here on the porch steps,
hungry,
watching the same car drive by.

I’ll have my dentist bills paid off next week.
In a month, I’ll take one step forward
and then two steps backward
because that seems to be what I do best.
Hell, I’ve been doing it for years now.

I love the sound of eggs breaking.

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