It Was Pancho Villa

«tell them i said something, dont let it end like this,»
on a re-upholstered leather couch in a cloud of tv,
smoke, and cigarettes, or a mattress on a hard wood floor
and an old acoustic missing stringed guitar
playing that same stupid punk rock song,
«weve been at the end all along,»
a bathroobe in the hall from a long time agos lost friend,
and a note that waited ten years to tell me to remember him,
he said; «its been too long since we had a day together in new york,»
absences as long as life is short,
in the first chapter of the best book that i ever read in my life, it said,
«to be reborn, first you have to die,»
hey, would it be alright if i used your couch to get too drunk tonight?
i’ve spent so many days pushing my skies away
so i can keep my sights squarely on the ground,
reincarnations killing me