Season Finale

Things were coming to a pre-determined end.
I could hear the music rising
for the montage of images
that would bring this chapter of my life
to finale.

Pictures and dreams
happenings and thoughts
all at an apex of closure.


A man on the street walked past carrying a stool
I stopped him to tell him my problems
because he seemed the most prepared.

The cherry blossoms of March
while on acid.

I look at images of
San Francisco
because they are a source of constant happiness.

I went downtown
to give my smokes away to those who asked.
That way, I could hear some
gratitude as I stood
and hoped to catch that magic dusk moment
when the street lights all turn on.

I had a dream
I was in a bar singing Sweet Jane
with Father John Misty
us, a pair of twin broken hearts.
When I forgot the words
he stopped me and said,
“See, Rock ‘n’ Roll isn’t as easy as quantum physics.”

Maybe it was time for a new career?
I’d like to work for the post office
but I don’t look good in shorts
and being a white male drunk
was already too of a Bukowski comparison.

That was the way my world ended
that was the way my world ended
not with a bang
but with a Mad Men marathon
and easy-chew cherry twizzlers.

I would like to lie and say
our sex was like the Nuremberg Trials
and nobody got off easy
but I’m trying to be honest with myself.

I had a dream
I was in my old neighbourhood
and they’d cleaned out the home
of my high school crush
and lined everything up in the center of the street.
I walked past
and recognized things I would later own
green turquoise mugs
cereal bowls
and children’s books.
Then suddenly I was crying
screaming with anger
unable to drive
and seeking help from the unknown shades I was to find
in the streets of my hometown.

I finished a crossword puzzle
and only cheated 16 times
which proved that both the New York Times
and the cold dawns of one-night-stands
could make me feel stupid.

I had a dream
that they changed the pictures on the backs of all the $20 bills
to show scenes of revolution and revolt
where riot cops swung bats for peace and Molotov cocktails
took flight for reduced student debt.

And then I realized that I didn’t give a shit
about what happened at the end of True Detective
season 2.

I had a launch party alone.
I supplied it with $80 of poor choice
and drank cheap champagne right out of the bottle.
I had been a year and half sober almost to the day
and this tortured relapse was anything but classy.

I read that the police caught
a serial arsonist in Nanaimo.
Too bad they got to him first
I had some things I wanted burned:
old love letters
old pictures
old notes with faded declarations written in your
always expressive cursive.

He could’ve provided me with ashes
I could’ve safely sifted through
without the threat of knowing what they once were.

Just ashes
that would safely
flake away under my fingers

Vancouver sunrise.
Another seven-minute nicotine meditation.
Half a pack of cigarettes had not yet
revealed all the mysteries of life
and stray cats darted out from under parked cars
to start their morning rounds
as dawn birds sang the first bars of their shift.

You asked me twice to marry you
and I said no both times
So you found someone who asked you instead
and now you’re leaving the show
while I trawl my thoughts and wait for the music to swell
wait for the fade out
the title card
and next seasons’ premiere
starring me
and anybody but you.

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