Taking stock
I tuck this year inside
the first little furrow-line
across my brow.

Hm. Skin's changing.
I'm changing.

There was more anguish in 24
than the Doc ordered.
Somehow, the endless easy wealth
endless easy employment
and eager entertainment
evaded me.

But there are also little dents on either side of my mouth now.
A ripple between lip and dimple.
There was joy on this face-
enough to carve its name forever.

24 and time has begun to speed up,
people talk a bit quicker
fleeter of foot
and calendar has begun
to foxtrot-

And I sit on the side of the Hall
watching the days dance on and on
how selfish they seem
How quickly Spring woos Summer
How fickle is Summer, as she whirls to Autumn
How chilly, Autumn as he falls for Winter,
How feverish, they dance.

24, a left-footed wallflower.
24 with wide eyes that try to capture
the entire world and hold it STILL.

This ball lasts forever and never.
There's no break.
24, I guess it's time to give Life my dance card
surrender and cut in,
24, ready, steady-

*let the dancing begin.

Don't call it falling.
Falling implies you can get up.
My infatuation lies along the fault lines
tucked beneath the first
bumps of turbulence.

Don't say swooning,
not any ocean's salt could
revive me.

It's a tachycardia- a frenetic, feverish ardor
that keeps us
p a c i n g....
.... p a c i n g
p a c i n g....

                          

                    A mania.



Yes, that's it- I'm manic in love with you.
Ill with adoration for you.
Anxious over you.
Possessed by you.
Elated, then devastated by you.

Prescribe me nothing.
Let this ravage me until bones are soil
and one day this up-for-grabs heart is
donated to someone who
thinks their life has been saved but
can't quite put their finger on
that immortal ache written within each valve.

But do not call it falling.
Falling implies you can get up.

Houston woke up early. Yawning. A cigarette away from just packing his meager possessions and leaving everything this dusty room did not have to offer. A spark of zippo flame had his lungs drowning in chemical filth. Sometimes it felt good to get *****. Often enough now that he had forgotten what it felt like to be clean. The yellowed pages of his favorite books stared back at him in a mismanaged pile on his writing desk. What few thoughts he had managed to scripple out kept them company on crumpled napkins and ink stained pages.The sheets a sweaty twist around his pale form. He knew something had to give or he really was going to go over to Silvia's to just "talk" but do what he had been thinking about more often of late and  drown her in the kitchen  sink sloshing over with ***** dish water she never drained. Gods but that woman drove him crazy. The clanging of glass every time he took a step a testament to those emotions. All he could do to cope with the damage she had wrought was lose himself in a bottle. Any bottle would suffice but his favorite was spiced ***. It used to burn going down but they had gotten so used to each other it was like old people having *** with the added bonus of actually reaching fulfillment.  The company he had kept last night lay sadly on it's side next to his worn mattress. It's cap somewhere in the wreckage of Houston's hundred dollar a month room. He looked down at it and sighed, picking up the neck and now stale sips left in the bottom. He knew that this one swallow would only stoke the flames of his desire for more yet he could not help himself. Autopilot had taken control weeks ago. The glass on his lips was comforting but the not enough taste left on his tongue was sour. Today. Cracking of his spine echoed as he stretched. Today he was going to get revenge.

Wanderlust
Eerie lights bob and weave through twilight mist
The exotic scents of Cajun spice and sweet *** linger
Quiet
Breathing deep bayou heavy air
Settling moistly into clove filled lungs
Chicory sends all the senses ablaze
The skies are big here
Brilliant constellations loom over scattered thoughts
Impressive and singular in their silent sentinel forms
A slowly ebbing tide recedes
It's 3am. The time when dreams die.
Leaving is a constant urge but I always come back
Head stone cold and porous against my tired spine
I've been walking a while
Never really knowing what the night will bring
Always hoping it's winding road will lead to you