a.m. decorations

from Perfect Sleeping Weather by Larry Fulford

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Scrawled into notebooks from the familiar comforts of temporary homes and the passenger seats of mechanically unsound vehicles adrift on the highways and back roads of America, Perfect Sleeping Weather is fifteen years of thoughts, observations, facts, and fictions hammered into a collection of poetry that, according to one reader, "sounds like a sigh."

In this, his first book, writer/drummer/comedian Larry Fulford reflects on the usual -- life, death, love and leaving -- while still managing to name-check Van Halen. Twice.

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lyrics

My mornings are decorated
with the neck-snaps of prostitutes
and lines of truckers holding convenience store
sausage/egg/& cheese biscuits.

I've grown accustomed to sitting on a quiet couch
alongside another unnecessary heartbreak,
not speaking but knowing damn good and well that if you count to
three and rip it off,
it stings a lot less.

Night, now, is just a darker version of day.
Sometimes I start out in my bed,
drive over to her bed, stare at the ceiling
and count the number of times I hear the cat's tag click
against the wood floor.

He counts down the hours
until he sees my feet and ankles
stumbling around stupid, looking
for socks and shoes.

I am a drunk tree trunk to him.
He is a cat-shaped clock to me.
She is wonderful to us.
Even when she plays a little rough.

The power lines on country roads
have a way of keeping time in southern slopes;
picking up speed when they hit the poles
and swooping back down
and back up
and back down.

We were those power lines one night
when we drove around and burned up fuel
trying to put the fire out.

I suspect you've accepted we're lost causes
wrapped in green mirrored Christmas paper,
showing the ugly world to itself
with more than a hint of our favorite color?

Okay. As long as it's green.

I expect to be gone before the city
finishes the new parking garage.
It's only going to block the breeze
and my view of prostitutes rubber-necking
at nice cars and bums that look like indie rockers.

Nothing's safe and everyone’s convinced themselves
they're not certain if what they're doing is wrong.
It's easier said than done.

I found the smell of her hair
on a piece of my pillow
even though it'd been a while
since she’d been there.

The morning was decorated
with glimpses of my future:
half of the bullets were bottle caps,
the other half was still bullets,
and she was going to France.