because it's like every time we're
in the same room, i can't
pull my eyes away from the curve
of your ears or the lines of your
knees or the way your veins are
permanently risen off the
back of your hands, like you're
always gripping something,
       you     just     don't    know    what

(it's overwhelming, knowing how
conveniently my hands would
fit into yours, so that you'd finally have
something to hold on to)

Re-awakened grass reaches from last week's cut and for today, wins

They never cared for much,
born into a world
which changes faster than they
attachments lost in the dull facade of trends
attachments never made
hooked to quivering emptiness
they never cared for much
other than a second look
The big man flashed neon colors
from the corner of the room
sitting in a box
of demanding power
and their thoughts are contained
confined
by character limits
points of data
and ceaseless lifeless numbers
numbers which scrawl the wall
like days left of a sentence
they see their souls
on the empty bus stops
and bleak dark houses
rocking in the stale night wind
and their cups never fell empty
nor did their lungs go long
without suffering
trying to find some chemical reaction
which might dissolve the world around
like mad scientists
they didn't care for much
only a yawn
a yawn
and an illusion

The night was spiked with energy
like the charge of air
after a lightning strike
each and every one of them
had their own motives,
to drink,
to meet,
to experience,
to try,
to do,
to ****,
to love,
to live,
to let come what may,
it was a night of suspension
freedom not from consequences
but the fear of consequences
a chance to relish in what their pastors' frowned upon
a chance to make their parents' disappointed
and for some,
just a chance

One was a pseudo-intellectual
he was a college learned man,
a phony philosopher
who was good at passing off trivia
as honest to god thoughts
trying to impress
some impressionable young thing
hoping for validation

One was a romantic
hopelessly addicted
to the fairer ***
with misplaced ideas
that he was
some sort of poet
and not just a spout of
pretentious,
whiny venting
just looking to get hopelessly lost

Another was an on the way sociopath
enrolled in the fraternity of the machismo
with every other word being
***** or ***** or ****
he wanted action
experiences to shape and harden
to be a fine edge
blessed with a fatal sharpness
he was looking for something
to prove his vulnerability

They all came together
people of all types
intolerant in the passing of time
their lives like so many grains of sand
falling in sand timer opulence
fear and inhibitions
slowly fading
like mixing whiskey and pain killers
they could live the night
to the beat of their own passion,
drives,
desires,
the night bent around their will
like moss creeping up fiber glass suburban houses
what did they care?
it was just another throw away night
in a long list
of thrown away nights