'What do you do?' She asked.
'I work the warehouses, I strive to escape,
I scribble lines in coffee stained note pads,
I fall in love with complete strangers,
I weep and hide away in my own world,
I read for hours on end until I feel sick,
I look out windows in a lonely haze
I pretend to be tough.
Often, I wish I was drunk forever,
I pray for a reprieve.'
'Oh,' she said. 'I don't care too much for books.'
She flicked her hair off to the side.
I felt the urge to play it out,
To see where this would go;
But usually scenes like this are death,
Although, I'm not certain.
'Yeah, I don't like books either,' I said.
I got up and walked towards the exit.
'Take this shit with you,' she said.
She threw my copy of Proust,
Nearly decapitating me.
Idleness in Perfection
Read that book again, and catch what you missed,
and give away the ending to imaginary ears
and empty stairwells where the echo of death hums
in dreams that tell a future, to go where the heart follows.
I think of it day in and day out
and remember when the great statue crumbled
when we ran across empty highways of night
and hid in the dark field to ease my fear
and kissed because nobody was watching
before you walked off into the night
to smash windows for codeine, supplying my fantasy,
then failed at robbing the liquor store,
before sore feet, bath, and the flicker of movie
snuggled up on ash ridden carpet
inhaling the last of the hand-rolled cigarettes
waiting, waiting, waiting for the midnight hour
for someone's deposit to bank,
so we may squeeze each drop from the bottle
into our moist youthful mouths.
Royce Provost: "I was born in Lethrbridge, Alberta, and moved to Calgary, Alberta, when I was young. I am 29 years old and male, and I am aboriginal. I began writing in early 2015 after discovering Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, and Jim Caroll, to name a few."