Rent is too damn High
“for the student, the sleepless & the heart-broken”
Can’t sleep can’t eat for weeks on end staring at a screen trying to get good grades and still failed with an empty refrigerator and professors crying “encore encore.”
Another day goes by with burning eyes refuse to close or fade to black or cut me any slack, fact, is, still I have to sit up straight and not be late and pay my dues on time, to tunes of frustration and flashes of shiny platforms somewhere in a station on the Hudson or the Rhine, and I don’t know why.
Come Sunday I don’t pray to what I don’t believe with an ace up my sleeve, a champagne brunch with an Irish girl to help me learn what I can’t forget to remember, but I do anyway, because she’s so hot, and never stops talking, while my head explodes to another bottle of wine in this church where my degree has a seat in the front aisle, but God isn’t listening.
Doctor Who is my man just a stones throw away told me take these little pills and see a shrink, then you can think straight and eat steak after a night of soft pillows and facing up to the origins of staying awake, because it always has a name with guys my age.
I took his pills, and there is no thank you involved after nights of tossing turning to false love and wet illusions of what was, nightmares that don’t end with me waking up beside her, but I can see clearly now, Doc.
So thanks for the big phat trip down memory lane where I left my pain in a train-station locker, her mother is the one with the key, but I pay the rent with a smile of vengeance, and ten years later it feels like yesterday no matter how much I get laid, except on Tuesdays when I drink a lot and listen to Gun&Roses. It was her choice, but I don’t cry no more over her picture. Flame on. It’s gone.
The seed: the last verse, a comment on something Muags wrote, kick-started my trip after we paid us a visit. The blog-photo is only an artistic metaphor – dead women are no fun.