If one is a cigarette lighter
that’s lonely, which is lonely.
—John Ashbery
No judgment. I’m sitting in the office
playing Trent on the big teevee trying
to remember that feeling when his
soul-cold lyrics first were piped (and
heavily) into my earholes. It’s one
of those legitimate workdays that
isn’t officially a workday. Nothing
I’ll count on any timesheet. Just the
stuff that has to be done. Slightly
out of tune single piano notes –
the most melancholy that can be
mustered in such a way, as he
twists away in chains hanging from a
beam above, somewhere in the Manson
mansion’s basement. I could goth it out,
cast my mood into the darkness, siding
solidly with the NIN tune. But then, it’s
Lenny Kravitz doing his naked dance,
TK421. It’s a quick turn that jangles
the senses, but I can roll with it. It’s
Saturday, I’m celebrating my newfound
glory and good luck, and I’m ready to
go in whatever direction the world and
its musical magic have me headed.
