Alone With a Chair

“ALONE WITH A CHAIR” I could never express how it feels, walking outside at 3 in the morning, wrapped inside the night air. I’m in my shorts, without a shirt. without the sun, you can see all of what you ignore in the yard. you can hear the chain move on the neck of the dog next door. there aren’t any cars at this time so the frogs hold your ears prisoner. the Pacific I hold tastes better than ever and each drag from the cigarette gets better. very few people listen to classical today but how many can say they listen to Gould? it’s a glorious thing when you know at that time, you’re the only one. I forget my heartache, the Pacific and the cigarette give me something a whore could never give me. I sit there in existence and smile into the sky as I listen to the recordings that Gould made when he was alive. it’s a magic unlike anything I can clearly describe. for the moment, you know you’re safe. for the moment, you are living. lines for the next poem come to mind and I place each one accordingly. I can only hope this night never ends but with the end of each sound of music, so too does the time pass. soon, the sun will be out and I’ll be back to this miserable position. I’ll leave the chair for now; it’s not like the whores I’ve known. it’ll be there when I get back. my bottle is empty, the cigarette is out, Gould has come to an end and all that is left is the squeaking of the chair, the squeaking that tells me, tomorrow early morning, I get to do it all over again. By: Chicano Eddie 9-23-2016