There are people suffering in the world,
(You could call me a *******,)
but there are people protesting it.
(I'd totally be into it.)
With socio-political religious divides,
(I'm into negging.)
driving confirmation bias.
(Choke me, beat me, bruise me, please.)
Everybody is just people,
(I like that you don't like me.)
and everybody deserves to live.
(Tell me again how worthless I am.)
Let's stop weaponizing our hatred,
(I just came when you hit me.)
and embrace each other as brethren.
(Death excites me.)

Yep, they're drinking again.
Hardly a surprise.
If I were a gambling man, I'd have placed the odds at 1:9.
I bet they'd pay no mind if one or two of their Budweisers went missing tonight.

Red and white can tightly gripped in each hand. Slide a couple up from the back on the off-chance they notice.

Awkwardly climb into the bed of my dad's F-250 (this was back before it got stolen.) Drink the first one as quickly as I can while the second one is losing its cool. (They taste even worse when they're warm.)

Nose running two-thirds of the way through. Cold-ish beer on a hot Florida night.  Gassing myself up for another hike. (Can you still call it a hike when you live in a place with no elevation?)

I put my wired headphones on (was it still CDs back then?) No, wait. I had an Ipod. First gen. Bought second-hand. Thing was a brick. Twice as thick as a present-day cell phone is.

Arrogant Sons of *******; that was my go-to. Them, and Radiohead. Sometimes, I'd even belt out the lyrics. (Some half-drunk kid stumbling through the neighborhood, singing like an idiot.)

But the music was only half of it. The rest was - well, aside from putting actual physical distance between me and the place that I lived - to work on my stride. An attempt at swagger. Finding some kind of rhythm to carry over into the next day.

So that I may face my peers without shying away. Without staring at the ground. So that I could stare back at those mysterious, vapid, judging eyes while screaming internally: You Don't Know What It's Like!

In the beginning, there was a sense of adventure. Strolling down unknown roads, trying out the names of novel streets on my tongue (they were all named after Mexican cities: Guaymas, Toluca, Mexicali.) Several dozen times later, it was less of an adventure and more of a pastime. Still, I wouldn't call it asinine. I had my favorites, predicated on how certain trees would break the glow of the streetlight, peculiar lawn or car hood ornaments, the scent of jasmine and oranges.

Now, two decades later, I'm still indulging in this old habit. Only, half the world away from where it started. The landscape, the houses, down to the sounds of the birds and insects, even the characters that make up the street names, all so strange. These walks feel like an adventure again.

But the reason behind them, perhaps, still very much the same.

Barely a decade under the belt,
and burying a barely felt sense of self under layers of bedding.
Sweating, short on oxygen, over-heating: it should have been the opposite of comforting.
What was it all about?
An attempt at returning to the womb
or trying to shut everything else out.

The funny thing about finally finding what you've always wanted is seeing how long it takes for you to lose it.

I'll deflate myself to gas you up,
because my end state is devastation,
but you could be happy/healthy/etc.

The pilot's off the wagon and on the sauce,
leading his pod to rot on the rocks.

She said I'll see you later and I said why not.
Steak dinner, body massage, whatever gets you off.

Short of breath and out of my depth.
Low on cash and I don't want what's next.

Wrung out, tapped dry, limped ****, heavy sigh.
Asking Gungan questions like, "are we gonna die?"

The minutes of the hour, day, week, year, decade, lifetime . . .  
grains of sand slipping too quickly through a hand trying desperately to hold on.

For what purpose?
To fling into the eyes of our enemy?
To add to a castle that will wash away in the tides?
To feel like we've got some semblance of a grip on this intangible thing called life?

We're all just holding on to a fistful of nothing,
and we're holding on too tight.