birth of the cool
in my parent’s small dining room
my portable CD player
placed right on the corner of the table
as you remember it
there was ice tea and nary an ounce of liquor
we were such rebels back then, huh?
but there was you and there was i
there was miles davis on a cool spring night
or was it the winter?
as much as i keep locked in my head
is as much as i’m starting to forget
whose CD was it?
or did it belong to the library?
these kinds of questions are coming to me
as i sit here tonight
getting drunk on vodka alone
listening to the birth of the cool
brooklyn screaming car horns and dogs
and assholes on their cell phones
parked in front of my open window
complaining about the other assholes in their lives
i can’t remember if it was my first time
listening to the album or yours
or was it the first time for both of us?
oh, i don’t know
i’ve had too much to drink
and i’m probably going to make
this a miserable night
for ally when she gets home
i tend to do that these days when i get going
about any small instance from the past
mixing alcohol and memories
into a fine molotov cocktail
i always hurl right into the present
what where we even doing at my parents?
smoking cigars and drinking ice tea
until my mother bitched down at us from the upstairs
home after some old high school friend’s
shitty metal show?
or at the movies with women
who’d try to ruin us with their love?
i don’t know
what does it matter now?
sitting here in this lonely room
the ice from my drink
burning my rotten tooth and freezing my throat
we had miles then
and i have him with me tonight
making finger shadows
in the headlights of some prick’s SUV
all this time regained
and all of this nostalgia
be damned unto a soused infinity
with all of the other moments of youth
disguised so badly as immortality