Backpack

Pick up a backpack, it makes me
want to write, it makes
sitting in this room bearable, it makes me turn
on the Cinematic Orchestra,
it makes me realize there's a world outside of this,
places to go, take that backpack,
take my hopes and leave
my fears in the policies that got us into this mess,
I'm grateful for my car, I should use it more,
maybe I should get a job,
but does getting a job = getting a life?
Check the math, the arithmetic,
doesn't add up,
my hourglass of luck is running out,
I'm running out of Doe's on Christmas Eve,
it's cold, Christmas lights
and outdoor lights,
shining like headlights,
the wood siding of the house, so much warmth
and so many people inside...
The good old world had a good run, where do we run to now?
Pack a backpack.

Now and then

Girl at the Philly bar in Westwood, sorry
I haven't been writing,
not to you, not for myself, you
deserved better, I was coming off
the tail end of a Great Depression,
all out of that jazz and ain't got no swing,
I couldn't have known what was good for me
if it looked me in the eyes, which it did,
luckily it didn't hit me in the face but
oh, how I wish you had,
I wish it had hit me in the face then instead of now,
why is it always now instead of then,
why now?

My language

I couldn't hear the rain before I turned the computer off, maybe
it's a sign, I was already shaking my hand
in fear before I started writing
this, and as I wrote
the first few words of the first sentence I started
to feel cheesy like a dinosaur, this language
feels so big and clunky and awkward
after learning another one, I wonder
if it's raining
on the army of Chinese babes halfway across the world,
connected via the internet and OkCupid,
I wonder how much I'll edit this, I wrote in pencil
because I don't like pens anymore,
ink washing away in the rain, lead fading with time, there is nothing
permanent to record your thoughts,
I wish I could carve them into the universe
and let my inspiration flow freely,
sucking up and absorbing the debris,
the split-second—sometimes second decisions
that go into writing surprise even me and my pencil and those
millions upon millions of Chinese babes halfway across the world,
would it surprise them that I was writing about them,
would it surprise them that I know less about my own
language than they do,
that I know less about myself,
that I don't know when to stop and am too
chicken to go,
that I still can't help falling into nostalgia whirlpools
and feel the pain of having to learn my language.