Secret Meaning of a Girl

Down on the bottom of a dead end drunk.
Didn't you hear the rumor that I was dead? Or dying?
Heroin in my heart and I lost another girl, scratched her initials
out of my arm with a linoleum knife.
Heard I got drunk and hit by a truck last week, none of the girls
looked depressed down at the bar.
I heard the latest one was even kind of smiling...

About a mile up from the river, right past the Bay Horse
where the old men drink Pabst Blue Ribbon from aluminum cans
on a cold and soulless Ohio morning.
Down at the dead end of a bottomless drunk.
I had a pocket full of Klonapins, couldn't even remember
the first half of the week
(I think I'll buy a motorcycle and just keep riding until the road ends).
I spilt Captain Morgan's down the front of my reputation
while the girl I used to love tried to make a joke about me.
I just ordered another drink, man.
She will never make me feel anything
ever
again.

A beer, a shot,
an immaculate heart,
six Vicodins in a box of matches,
a sackful of sarcasm,
a pewter plug from a filling that fell out.

A beer, a shot,
a long goodbye,
no goodnight kiss, no best wishes,
no cards in the mail for birthdays or Christmas.
An aching bone stuffed with rancid marrow,
a dull thud,
a weak palpitation.

Red lipstick on a cigarette butt,
a ring of condensation from your glass,
a beer, a shot.

A bar napkin with a phone number,
two twenty dollar bills and seventeen cents,
a good intention,
a skewed interpretation.
An idiot's laughter, an empty book of matches,
a couple arguing at the corner table,
a telephone ringing,
a choice, but not an option.
A gutter filled with rain water and oil,
a watch that keeps ticking,
a reason.

A beer, a shot,
the flight of a frantic housefly,
the sound of human lives.
An ordinary Wednesday,
accidental Feng Shui.
The scent of basil,
the feel of sweat on your forehead.
Outside the passing sirens,
inside the passing out.

A love song on the radio through the static of bad reception,
a glance from a stranger,
a vague desire.
A first date
or an anniversary?
The last in a package of cigarettes,
the first in a long string of explanations.

A beer, a shot,
the burn of bourbon,
a changing season, the indifference of pigeons.
A constant yearning,
an awkward flirting.
A kiss that tastes of her cigarettes,
a familiar flaw,
it's just the sound of her leaving.

Forgive the repetition, someday I might just get this right
but how many songs on the radio are going to make me sick today?
Outside it's raining and the sidewalk never stops to wonder why it's
drenched. It would as soon stay wet just to annoy me.
Love,
with its bindle on its back,
just stepped out of my doorway, again.

How many times is this not going to work before I finally get the point?

Sometimes I can't
so I just stopped trying
and she just stopped calling
and I can't get it lit because of the rain on my matches.
It's one last time I descend this staircase,
scared of the dark in her heart,
knowing damned well I'll take
whatever it is she hands me.

I don't wish to press the issue,
I worry about overkill
but how much do I have to take
before I start to get ill?

Just one more time on the linoleum floor,
one more time out by the dumpster,
one more plunge into the binge,
one last message on my voicemail,
just one last time...

After one last taste I swear I won't even try,
I'll keep my eyes on the sidewalk
averting every crack which wishes me back to my level.
My intentions turned to perversions
which fail.
A loss that all metaphors pale.

I will slide my jeans back on,
button up my shirt.
I will concede to this hold you have over me
and flee from your bedside,
no longer trying to sell you this mess that you could barely afford.

My mistakes fill a box of old photographs
that stack for miles,
spilling out over the edges like evidence left
from a futile binge of the heart.

The next time I tell you that I love you,
remind me I'm drunk.
Hang up the phone.