My Soul is a Concept

-- The lovely Leann's suggestion. I thought I'd let the Musician handle it. --

"My Soul is a Concept"

My soul is starved
My poor helpless faith
Stored in a cardboard box
In my ex's basement
Where the encasement causes it
To make music
For those who can't hear it
But fear it anyway
Knowing it may slip up onto the sidewalk
Play a guitar
Write a song or two
But remain in a box
Or don a sandwich board sign
That reads and asks:

'What do you believe?'

I believe in chicken chop suey
Gooey Chinese food
Day old, still good
Eaten with half-dirty forks
On a mattress
Watching a tv with rabbit ears
Never hearing the pounding on the landlord
Making love to his shady lady
Just one stop over
Pop a pill and he's gone
Mowing lawns in Moderna
The suburban town over
Between Grover and Trenton

To hold onto your soul
In a position like this
Is trickier than your Miss
Who might or might not be
Getting dirty with your buddy
Named Buddy
When you're off at work
Doing dishes at cafes
While waifs in t-shirts
Don't tip you
Until you slip up to the stage
And sing for your seduction
Witness their reduction to mainstream bits
Who tip their sex your way
And you send them away
To come home and find your mattress
Smelling like Buddy
His ruddy sneakers probably hidden
Somewhere in your closet
And your Miss smiling like at you
Like--

'What did I do?'

My soul is homeless at the moment
Its tan seems out of place
In this cold winter climate
Playing across the street from me
Wondering when I turned into
A man with a home
Alone because the Miss moved out
Without request from yours truly
Her unruly scarves removed
From the depths of my closet
And Buddy's ruddy shoes gone too

My soul explains things to me
From his side of the street
Like his existence
And how it factors into
My style of writing
Nights in diners
Over eggs over easy
And greasy ham slices
Enticing waitresses to come home with me
So I can have sex
So I can have sex to write about
And fight about my moving on
With Miss when she comes around
Which she doesn't
And she won't
That's what my soul tells me
And he says--

'Where are you supposed to be?'

I invite him in
And with a grin
He takes in my offer
But considers staying outside
Where at least the sun
Is allowed to reside
On cool pavement days
Rays seep down on my soul
But he packs it up anyway
And then off we go

'Where are you supposed to be?'

My soul left a note on my night table
Telling me watch the wires
The cable wires that linger over my head
Allowing me to watch the Food Network
For hours on end
With no friend in sight
To drag me out into the brave light of day
Where I can face my demons
As they appear to me
Brokers
Poker-faced parents
Sitting at outdoor tables
Hearing fables from their kids
About what they're studying
And not studying
And why they're not studying
What they're not studying
And plans for the future
Refuting claims that so-and-so's nephew
Is doing such-and-such
At an archipelago in Pago Pago
And isn't that impressive?

My waitress from a few nights ago
Meets me for English muffins
At a cafe near Sans Loco
And when I mention the parents
Says--

'It's annual--didn't you know that?'

She means parents week
And I attempt to peek over
At my soul enjoying a mimosa
At the next table over
Sitting with the soul of my ex
Looking sexy in a deep thrust
Sort of way

They're discussing concepts
Conceptual takes on break ups
And how they miss
Waking up next to each other
Miss's soul isn't as cold
As its owner
But its still detached
As is mine
I notice

As the waitress drones on

My soul finally moves out
It found a place in Grayton
Two-room, decent parking
Utilities not included
But a nice converted attic space
Where grace and gratitude
Can come over for dinner parties
And look out over the mini-malls
No hallways separating rooms
Everything out in the open
The way my soul likes it

I remind my soul
That I got it off the street
And off the drugs
And kept it clean
Funny stories
About the cable wires falling
From higher places
Than I thought I could hang them

He reminds me
That it was simply a favor
That had run its course
And of course I knew
That this would happen to us

He'd move on
And I'd be stuck
On my mattress
Waiting for Miss
Who skipped town
A long time ago
When Buddy's buddies took up issues
With the misuse of their money

My soul is a concept
It's discussed over brunch
The big plans it spread around town
Ground into condensed expectations
Taken on as soon as it returns
From Caribbean vacations
Elation turning to trepidation
As cobwebs creep up around rumors
That never turn into gold

My soul is a promise
My place is a shithole
My progess is intermittent
And my dinners are cold

My life is a joke
And the joke's getting old