The Irrational scent of Hair Salons

The Irrational scent of Hair Salons

I miss you today in a smell that wafts into the crop of this fresh hair cut

Smelling of your soft hands as if you were there guiding my impression

Of how I might come across to some female vantage point

Scissors and rivers of want to come back and time into the blunt

Explanation of undiscovered truths, of being ignorant and happy

Of not hurting in a mother’s day dream of Sunday

Of wishing you could in between my hands and an empty sofa

Of a future with out the aftertaste of her new husband

Transfigured and mis-delivered, I am so hungry

You hang there on the moon a luminous girl

And I know that was never you, hoping somewhere something true existed

I am just a fellow ghost pretending to play host to a Parisian café

Off we go with a lemon in a coke and all the table cloths are stained

No place to sit, no meal left to serve

Just a blurry eyed man bumming for change out on the curb

Two steps from the street staring up at the lunar eclipse

Running my hands through my own hair wanting to pretend

This is not this day feeling like a sludge bucket of all this stale fare

Wishing there were arms and eyes and births inside

The home I will drive home to tonight to comment to stop and notice

A difference in all these follicle accoutrements, wanting the shade or

The texture to matter like a lever on a roller coaster and amusement of time

And in this discrimination I have been lying around for a week infiltrated by this malaise

I do not want to do anything productive, nothing but avoid this work

Of being open, of believing the coffin has not closed on me takes a length

Of faith I have not got in me, not here, not in this barrel, please murder these crows

Down from one to two, because there are so many of these black feathered former you’s

Fluttering the wire and landing on the towers of all that never was

I am a gargoyle.  I am an untold story trying to get out, just come stroke your hand

Through this hair and make me fall out, I am done on this week about to give up

Pretending you and I were ever in love, nothing I have ever felt has ever been true

All these invulnerable female soldiers playing target practice

Wanting Russian roulette rather than to rotate these repetitive questions and spend one more day to ask it.