Klosterman is my metaphor
At one point, you'll spot that poisonous snake
And each dirty thought will drain into the bool pool
Stephen's bool pool, where we all go down to drink.
Within each block of your crinkled road map
There will be a stop sign or a stoplight
And each octagon will conceal a choice
Stop; don't stop. Crash test or no test
My road was empty the other day
So I renovated into a dummy
And prayed my unreligious way into safety.
My mom likes grayscales, but I couldn't care less
Color doesn't make a pretty picture
For me, it's all in the eyes.
And I have this little photograph tucked away
In a glass box where I keep certain treasures
Among flecks of broken bottle and lucky charms
And the collar of Monty Love, who isn't here anymore
And our eyes were so young then- but not innocent
Full of petty things and with no light bulbs dangling above
We smiled shy smiles, but not at Mr. Carl Zeiss
Because we didn't spot the camera
And suddenly, the shutters of that night have opened
The snake was in the room, but I never saw it
Not until now, as it looked out at me from our shafted eyes.
And it worked out all right once, but not lately
It's been hard to walk the tightrope when they hold the other end
Because they don't know how I balance anymore
My light bulb is there, and growing, as is yours
The pettiness doesn't inhabit my eyes
I've become a landlord, when once I rented
Rented out storybook minds of paperback pages
I drank from the bool pool; you should too
I ran a red light and was caught by my own intuition
Black cherries and the thought of you
I'm handing off the tightrope
Who knows, maybe I'll let you hold it again one day
Until then, take a message from an Esquire columnist
85 of a true story leaves a little room for something else.