The guitar strings kiss calluses to my fingers
when I've been its forgetful, lazy suitor.

My hair becomes dandelion thin
and my dreams recycle my days.

Babe, when we're stuck in that rowboat,
life a placid lake instead of flaming hoops

for our motorcycles to jump through,
we'll either be enlightened or boring.

Midnight on a highway I could be driving down
but all I see are the creases on my bedsheets,

words in a language that means nothing
while awake. The onramp to sleep is littered

with beer bottles and baseball scores, each lifted
from the devil's favorite boxes.

Can't I sue my dreams for broadcasting
all my best material to the aliens?

Midnight on the golf course that could be
my backyard if I had certain ambitions

but I haven't hit the right one yet.
The bedroom is full of broken bottles,

each one a dream I'll never have again.


C. Nolan

I don't remember writing BECAUSE NOBODY WRITES SELF-HELP BOOKS FOR ME, but it surely was composed late at night. Possibly around the time the cable guy found out we were stealing cable or when I saw three dead rats during one walk. That's about it.