It's Sunday Night

and I'm sitting alone at IHOP,
ashing my cigarette into a ramekin;
despite the sparse business
there don't seem to be
any ashtrays.

The girl at the next table
is all dolled up,
blood and bruises,
Marilyn Monroe meets George Romero.
The guys are talking caped comics,
Neil Gaiman and Frank Miller.

I pour another cup of coffee.

I came here thinking it might
be nice to sit among
people as I write, for a change.
Zombie Lady calls me "sir"
as she asks to bum a smoke
for Comic Guy, and I think,
How fucking surreal
is that?

There was a time when I had
my own Comic Guy,
all geek and no reality
and despite all the
masochistic escapism
everything made sense.

Coldplay's lullaby,
Speed Of Sound,
drifts out from the speakers
in the ceiling.
How ironic is it that while thinking of
Comic-ex I'm reminded of
Musician-ex? And oh,
how he was so jealous of
Comic-ex,
threatened, frightened.

Zombie Lady is gone now;
back to wherever it is
she exists when she's not in
a lonely poet's notebook.

And I'm suddenly
overwhelmed
by the need to finish this
now.
Don't take it home,
don't mull it over,
this story is here
and if I don't finish it here
I never will.
Because I never finish anything
and I'm just now forcing myself
to grow up, God damn it.
At the ripe old age of
twenty eight I have to
Imust grow up.

I've been fighting myself
at every turn; fighting
my age, fighting
school, fighting the very
color of my eyes.
It's been easier to stagnate,
but not any more.
I can't pretend I'm nineteen
when I find grey hairs
and my back aches in the morning
and I just don't have it in me
to drink until I vomit.
The more I ground myself
the less I understand
and that scares
the shit out of me.

So I will find a way,
be it my own or not.
I will force my awakening
and keep pushing because
maybe that's all I have left
and all I have to look toward.