Museum of Natural Dipsomania

I get to saving shit, worthless artifacts, little pieces of paper with worthless words and such, and think that those papers and notes and such shit might make some difference later… some cleaving inside the coarseness or around it, make the savage nature a bit more…or maybe less , you know, austere. Maybe have a little peace and remembrance, maybe some good, some good. I got a fucking envelope from some letter that the girl who wore space sandals sent to me, lost the letter, but that envelope I still got, had it hidden in my dictionary for about 8 years and I can just look at the handwriting on it, the old address, the postmark from Opelika. I got the dollar bill Perry from Jane’s Addiction threw off the stage at that concert in Nashville, got all the ticket stubs from all the Cardinals’ games I ever went to, ‘cause nobody knows the fucking beauty of baseball anymore, just me and some dying New York Jews, they’re seventy years old or more and I just feel like it, what with the hundred thousand beers and all, but I got the fucking stubs and I’ll give up another wife and some more skin before I lose ‘em, and you can bet something big on that, something worthwhile, I mean it. I got some other silly shit, too, silly to you and maybe to me too, like books I read a hundred times, you know, books, those arcane relics that a few big city smartasses like to talk about to show just how fucking smart they are, like their who’s who list might make them a worthy and compatible lay… I read Eco in high school, babe, wanna fuck or should we do another line? I even have a big collection of records. Shit, I collect scars, or at least gather them whether I want to or not; they may be worthless too, but I always seem to come on a little more interesting after a new one, the girls go in for that shit, honey let me put some iodine on that, honey, you don’t want it to get infected… I get to saving shit like that for why I don’t know, except maybe I’m afraid I might drink away all the real memories, or if they make me sober off or up I won’t ever feel them real again like I do when I’m drunk and I piece them together on a trip, like how could I remember being a fucking child, waiting for my mother to wake up after about twenty shifts in a row, without the music I heard from that tinny little fucking AM alarm clock radio, blaring out Al Green and Bread and Santana and Teddy Pendergrass, sitting on the bed, staring at her sleeping body and waiting, or rifling through her purse for some change to go buy a fucking Slurpee and surprise her with a pack of smokes because they would sell them to seven year olds then, and she liked Benson and Hedges menthol light 100’s. A kid, right, or maybe not right, shit, maybe worse, I thought I was hot shit then, smart enough to fall for it when my uncle told me the best way to get over a sunburn was to take a fucking hot shower, and who’s hot shit after that? Yeah, I get to saving shit for what it’s worth, or is it worth anything, I don’t know, but I got it all, in cigar boxes, tucked in books, under the fucking mattress, on cassette tapes if you remember those, and other such fucking places, but I do believe I am running out of the necessary patience to remember where I put all of it, and don’t know if I care to keep on drinking up a syllabus of remembrance, or if any of it is at all worth the price of admission. After all, who likes museums anyways, none of them have the fucking courtesy to even have a bar in the lobby.