Outside the cold strips air
from constricted throats
as the din of good company settles in
lost in a conversation
I have no interest in
My favorite place to get lost
only because I know so well
the nods and "mhm's" of good taste
surrounded by people
It's okay to let the mind wander
while we smoke ourselves
into a soporific stupor

The well groomed professional takes a sip
from his Styrofoam twenty ounce coffee
He glares at me - his eyes green with disgust
the night before I walked beside the moon
that morning I rose anew, born in flames
The well groomed professional takes a sip
from the corner of my eye I see her
standing waves of gold, porcelain smile
I glare at her - my eyes red with my lust
dancing to the flickering glow of bulbs
she pauses, a breath, Red Eye anyone?
The well groomed professional takes a sip
glaring at the mirror - his eyes black with
fear
I take my coffee and walk out the door
adrift in the cold Richmond winter air

I am in the wild
a world not of nature
but the nurturing of ambitious men
and blood thirsty predators
The Wild
where you can walk
desperate mile after desperate mile
without seeing another human face
only the twisted visage
of a wounded, snarling beast
In the distance I hear the
pounding of drums as
black smoke sails across the sky
declaring war on anything
which looks like it might belong
I am in the wild
and am not yet ready to return

my brain is dotted with burn holes
craters on the moon
like the ones on the denim sofa
from when I fell asleep
beer in hand
cigarette hanging loosely from the corner of my mouth
like the dot that comes at the top right of a cinema screen
change the reel
in the industry we call them cigarette burns
thoughts get lost in them
only to be found covered in tar and ash

Dear girl who works the security desk at my friend's dorm,
blonde hair or purple, you get me going
and I'm impatient
i don't go in for the dating game
so wouldya do me the service
of maybe
possibly
marrying me
me you and the blonde barista would be happy together
until death do us part

Literal thinker
an analytic mind
this translates into an over-thinker
thinking that the small details that make this world
are all connecting and all crashing down among us
every potential gear slip
twisted metal in a field of flames
the no's spoken
the fists thrown
the off switch is gone. lost. broken.
living life is an instinct
a reaction
not a thought process
but some voices are hard to silence

it's too late to call for help
once you're already underwater
it's too late to miss somebody
once the tide has already gone out