Sonic Monologue

“Not that I’m crazy,”

I told him

“I just like it when things haunt me,
Charge me up and knock me back.
Why aren’t you like whiplash?
(Should be, why aren’t you calling me?)
Maybe, not so maybe, but maybe its me.
Could be, I am bad jazz,
Painful, ruining dim-lit conversation.
Least I’m trying, I can be art.
I can.
Hyphens are art.
Look-it-look-it-look-it, or how about ellipses?
I am making oceans everyday or speaking in tongues,
both could swallow you.
And wouldn’t that be nice/naughty/for naught?
???????
K...let’s try smart.
I own wealths of libraries of impertinent,
Possibly not so impressive,
Candy-land and Chaucer-born
Factoids.
I read.
I read.
And I am a book.
So judge me.
Just not his cover, because I didn’t ask for it.
Is it books you hate or small winding words/turns?
???
‘cuz the longer I keep spewing
the shorter the timeframe we have
before myopia turns to dystopia.
(heh heh heh I got that from a book.)
With/without 20/20 hind sight or horn-rimmed specs.
So.
So?
Answer me quick, I’m fixin’ to realize
That it isn’t you so much or maybe
I am trying to impress
But the me I see reflected in your pint glass,
refracted from the dazzle in your eyes, shot from myself
that obviously isn’t impressive.
Not nearly enough to make you like Salinger
Or Neo-Classical-bumble-fucking art,
Or crazy…
---
???
or me.”