Tag Archives: Counting Crows

A Month Without Nickel

9 Mar

A Month Without Nickel

 

Sleep is an old vacuum cleaner from the 1950’s

The kind they used to sell door to door

Most now buried and the ones still around

Don’t really work anymore

 

And when I do sleep

The dreams eat all the floors

Until I wake up perpetually exhausted again

With no safe place left to stand

 

I miss everything about her

Even the things that used to piss me off

 

I miss her reverse Hitler mustache

And the way she’d leave old action figure twist ties

And other random shit like ham in the middle of my futon

For me to find when I returned home from work on the weekdays

 

I miss the way she used to follow me everywhere

When I was in a bad mood and she’s slap her paw

Against me face every time my face needed slapping

 

In that way she had

That seemed to say

Hey, we’re alive

 

Life is hard

But we’ve got each other

Cat logic goddamn it

We’re gonna be ok

 

I don’t have that anymore

I’ve lost my best friend

And that reassurance that came

With the two of us simply

Being together in the same room

 

I miss the way she’d crawl beneath the blankets

On the long nights when my mind was surrounded

By all the beautiful things that have left me

 

I miss the way she’d chase me up the stairs

And I miss the way she’d manage to break into the basement

And I miss the way she’d scream for cat treats

At the top of her lungs when she was breathing

 

Nickel,

 

I miss you so much

That I have a hard time believing that you’re gone

And fuck I’m so sorry

I took you for granted

When I took you that way

 

Like we tend to take

All the things that keep us going

For granted

 

You’re buried in the back yard now

 

And I’m whatever I am

And I am now also the backyard

You’re buried in me

 

And I will carry you until

Until my legs turn to dust

And then I’ll carry you some more

 

Because fuck it

Death cannot stop us

Because I refuse to let it

 

And I know

Wherever you are

That you refuse to let it

To stop you too

 

And p.s. also

Shutter Island also misses you madly

And says: hello

 

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Tiny Notebook Poems

13 Feb

tiny-notebook

Tiny Notebook Poems

 

I Want You To See My Underpants

 

I want you to see my underpants

But I’m not wearing underpants

So where does that leave us?

 

What are we looking at here?

My weiner or

The end of the world

 

 

Adam Duritz Letter To Santa Clause

 

Dear Santa,

 

I need a raincoat, a sunburn, and a new car. Mom says I’m too young to drive and that the sun can be dangerous, but fuck that. She has thus far voiced no objections about the raincoat. Also I kinda want a puppy. I’ll name her Baltimore. Is that asking for too much? If you’ve just nodded your head yes then I don’t know, forget about the sunburn. I realize now I was being unrealistic with that. Sorry, I’ve been day drinking. Let’s just stick with the raincoat and the new car and the puppy. Thanks man.

 

Sincerely,

Yr pal Adam

 

 

Saving Private Ryan 2

 

A post World War 2 Matt Damon

Falls asleep on the bus to the Denver Art Museum

And somehow wakes up in Cleveland

 

His family becomes worried when he doesn’t come home

For dinner that night because they had all planned to send

One of his twenty fucking grandkids to pick up a bag of

 

Taco Bell Doubledillas

Matt Damon’s favorite

So they call the police and report him missing

 

12 people die horrible deaths before they eventually find him

Standing in the TV department at Sears mumbling shit like

“When did Sylvester Stallone start doing tampon commercials?”

 

As World War 3 falls from the sky

Like cats dying

The end

 

 

Your Love Is A Boomerang

 

Your love is a boomerang

And I don’t know how

To throw a boomerang

 

I’m lousy at it

 

I have failed

many times

again and again

A Bottle Of Mustard

6 Oct

bottle-of-mustard

 

A Bottle Of Mustard

 

It sounds weird doesn’t it?

We both agreed

It sounds weird

 

Like a trombone of toothpaste

Or a birdhouse of gin

 

People don’t say it that way

Despite the fact that mustard packers

Have been packing mustard in bottles

For a (completely made up number) of years

 

So many years that it makes time

Look like a vibrator murdered in frosting……..

 

A battalion of soy sauce

A suitcase of mayonnaise

A quiet syringe of pumpkins

 

You don’t really hear people

Refer to mustard that way

We both agreed on this

We’d never heard anybody say something like:

 

Please pass the bottle of mustard, Angelita? or

Brad, did you remember to pick up

That bottle of mustard you said you’d pick up

At the Assorted Condiments store?

 

[Historical note: the answer to one of these things

Was ‘no’, hence their sequel quickly re-titled:

Mr. and Mrs. Divorce]

 

(I can’t believe you forgot the goddamn bottle of mustard

Again, goddamn it! What am I supposed to feed the kids!?

You dick!

 

Some of us have a hard time letting things go)

 

A guillotine of salami

A tube of your beauty

A filing cabinet of laughter alphabetized by fun

 

“I can’t believe you ate an entire bottle of mustard, Brad?”

Ha!

People don’t talk that way, do they?

We didn’t think they did

(Where’d our parking lot go?)

We were almost sure of it

 

A hash pipe of pasticcios

(Is that really how you’re supposed to spell ‘pasticcios’?)

A Sheryl Crow of toilet paper

A full moon of Emily Blunt

 

A packet of mustard? That made sense to us

A jar of mustard sounding like plane ol’ common sense

But a bottle of mustard, nope

 

That just sounded wrong to us

Like a cornucopia of relish

Or President Trump

 

Cersei/ergo:

 

These are some of the many things we talked about

Before looking for our parking lot after

The Rob Thomas/Counting Crows Red Rocks show

 

[Historical note: Turns out the reason it took us

A couple of hours to get in the car was because

Our parking lot had slipped off on the tour bus

With the bass player from one of the bands,

Returning somewhat eventually with a 2016

Tour t-shirt and a bruised clit)

 

Postscript:

 

No raincoats were harmed in the writing of this poem

 

(A candelabra of potato salad

A nalgene of celery

A salt water aquarium of love)

Me Too Night: Raining In Baltimore

2 Oct

Countingcrows

Dear Everyone,

This one was written for Me Too Night, which was hosted by the great American poet and former cab driver Jonathan Montgomery. Jonny has a new book out called Pizzas and Mermaid, which is a must read for everyone. Head on over to Amazon and pick up a copy. Do it now. Don’t wait. I’ll be posting a review of the whole thing soon. It’s really: fucking great. Until then,

iloveyou,

GITCH

Me Too Night: Raining In Baltimore

Raining in Baltimore is a song about losing everything you’ve ever wanted and then standing around, alone in the aftermath, wondering to yourself, slowly, exactly how the fuck you’re supposed to move on.

Because when you’ve just lost what you love, a life post all this losing, the moving through and getting-on-with-the-show bits of your life that your friends implore as absolutely necessary, well all that continued existing in a world that breeds heartbreak and rains absence just seems damn near impossible. I mean, have you seen the state of these big tops lately?! They’re ruined! It’s all useless! The bearded lady is lying over there dead, crushed beneath the weight of battered canvas. And where are all these goddamn elephants supposed to go?!

Baltimore is the name that Adam Duritz gives to this thing that has broken his heart and ripped out the indoor plumbing of his soul and left him shell shocked and still bleeding a little bit from the mouth maybe, twirling his finger through wet dreadlocks at the bottom of the feeling shitty about oneself’s swimming pool, with no fucking clue as to the fact of how to move on.

And though we don’t all have dreadlocks, we do all have our Baltimores. That one thing we’ve loved that is no longer with us but never really goes away either, it just sort of sits out there, raining, 50 miles east, nicknaming our face ‘salt’ and then rubbing it on a day by day basis into our own wounds.

It’s just sitting out there, 50 miles east, refusing to be forgotten like a dick.

This is the reality in which our song’s narrator wakes up to, every fucked up day. And when you’re feeling this bad about shit, it’s the simplest things sometimes that can get you through, that help you break past the desperate loneliness and prevent you from just giving it all up and taking a nap on a busy railroad track. The train conversations, etc. When you feel like your skin has been replaced by a burlap based material of constant loss, it’s the simple things that get you by.

Hence the constant requests….for raincoats and phone calls…sunburns and plane rides. Me, I hate talking on the phone, so in my version of this song I need a comic book or an old black and white horror movie.

I need a Philip K Dick book

I need some Bela Lugosi

I need a sweat shirt

I need some Star Trek

I need a Twilight Zone Marathon

I need a motel room

I need a xanex

I need a gas mask

I need a worm hole

I need some clean socks

I need a blow job.

I need a notebook.

I need a blow job

I need a space pen

I really need a blow job

I really really need a blow job

I really really need a blow job