by Nathan McCool
I gather up abandoned bottles kissed with
cherry lipstick and cigarette scents – bring them to my lips and eavesdrop on the white noise inside.
“Come on back in, one more time, for the encore of “The Butcher Boy”; come in for
the closed viewing of PSR B1919+21.”
And this is when the boredom of barrooms
Right at the moment I emit pulses
that tell the masses I am not part of them. I’m sending you a signal, you tiny, little world.
See me here spinning and burning in my own
mind. I hop on stage to sing you a melancholy ballad and follow it up with “Tower of Song”.
That’s where I am. Another hundred floors below Hank Williams
and screaming to tell you,
“It’s the loneliest down here.”
McCool is a member of Blood Into Ink and theSudden Denouement Literary
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