Blowing Bong Hits at the Moon
For all I know This could be the last show.
But I'm too young to hang up the clown suit just yet.
Re-running happily frightening images of wher I come from.
Where I've been.
Never imagining in a thousand hits
I would've ended up here.
Never fathoming it would be like this.
Carefull jottings of history...I suppose.
Both true and halucinated
while Coltrane and the gang tell me about their favorite things.
It all gets fuzzy these days when I try to think.
Before today speaking and not being heard
Being silent then being ridiculed and blamed.
All because I was too damn quiet.
Much much too quiet.
I say to my self it must have been hell for those nice folks to
endure a silence so uncomfortable.
The tribal noise in my chest grows thicker louder and faster.
Scared to death driving down that old familiar road.
Even though all roads, all freeways all highways look the same
as I ride down them at this stage in the game... but this one,
I'll never forget this one.
I too have cruised sadley to Screw Loose Pl. and Rubber Room Dr....
To make my life
Somewhat more interesting.
Now accellerating fast,
acting like a tough guy,
Holding back one too many tears
Driving down that old familiar road.
Many a drunken night picking her up.
Many a night dropping her off.
Lying about going straight home afterwards.
Creature of habit, I.
Who could blame me for cuttin loose?
Who could blame me for wanting to speed down our sweet little
road as fast as physics will allow?
Same leather jacket she remembers.
Same cigars too.
Traffic lights in the rearview mirror
Nothing but an insignificant blur
As I barrel down that fucking road.
Playing chicken with lady death her self.
Take my self a hit of apocalyptic proportions...as I say coooly to my self, 'I'm betting she's gonna swerve first.'
And then I burst.
I let go of the wheel.
And then I let go completly.
I cried and fought
Won and lost
In the 11 or so public schools.
Took a shot or two to the ribs from the baby sitters who raised me.
Took my pills with a cruel glass of blinding juice
in all the mental hospitals I've stayed.
Triumphed in misfit bars with misfit folks.
Turned around in all my soap box glory and said my self greater then all of them.
I relished in who I was
but only back then
Lived through night terrors.
Dragged through lilly white Hallmark hell.
Been from here to hell in search of a dream not yet found...
But it's out there alright.
Been from here to hell just to shake a little leg...
Make a little dough
But both trips seem the same at times.
But what am I doing now?
I mean really.
Shadow boxing in the corner like Joe Lewis.
Sweet life giving solitude.
It could'nt be grander.
The freedom to go out back
Spread my tired wings
Breathe deep and blow a friendly fog at the moon
Luminating my dirty work.
Well slugger... it's time.
I'll give them a show to remember me by.
Knock 'em dead champ.
matt fromm's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Blowing Bong Hits at the Moon by matt fromm )
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(22 March 1941 -)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)