A succulent can thrive
on care given once,
maybe twice, yearly.

I love them because
they can still capture
my attention even when
neglected.

Petals wrapt in fibers
and furs, spines daring
me to poke and ****.

I love them because
they are a lot like me.

Fun to look at.
A pain to hold.

The New York Times
ran an article
on Catholicism today.

I read it while
I was on the toilet.

My grandpa just
joined up.

He said they get him.

The **** Baptists
waste too much water
and they don't even
drink beer.

I knew a Catholic girl once
who was adamant in salvation.

Heaven's gates spread
as wide as her legs.

I am your headache,
gentle resentment
on a Friday evening.
I am four beers blunt
and two shots tired.
I am flirting with life
like a closeted man.
I am flailing my arms
hailing a ride home.
I am ready for sleep
but don't have dreams.
I am sorry I can't be
everything you want.

You once asked,
“what's your favorite flower?”
and I responded
“dandelions”.

You looked at me
and said that
I see the beauty in everything.

And I did,
for a time.

How vain
to think
that I’m the only one
deserving of your breaths.

Not presently,
but before,
and future.

Presently, too, I concede.

If arrogance is driving
you to me,
or to us,
as in those that were,
like a taxi
with the most gracious pilot
politely asking you to fasten your belt
to tether you to the busted seats,
then I would be happy to have it break down

in my driveway.

The first man to look
at himself in a mirror
must have found madness.

The second came upon
the mirror in shatters.

He reached down to pick
the shining image of the sun
up off of the dusty ground
and split sinew and skin.

The third was a female.

She found a shard
with the man’s blood resting,
still shining red and viscous,
over the bottom half.

She carefully bowed
to her broken visage
and applied blood to her lips.

She examined her new beauty
and smiled at the glass stranger.

She reciprocated.

It's a one-hundred and eleven
yard walk to the gas station
for a fresh pack of Spirits and
a new lighter. Black this time.

I'm about fifteen miles away
from you in the literal sense
and separated from you for
roughly two months in mind.

People talk about my cigarettes
because they claim to be free
of fillers and additives. Sure.

I think the package is pretty
and they feel nice on my lips.

They burn pretty **** long
and they give me a hell of a buzz
but once I'm down to the filter,
I still have to move to a new one.

From my bed:
a sneeze-speckled mirror
reveals my eyes
and a window
that plays host
to a still-frame sky
and a power line.

I use this to plan my day.

For instance(s):
if it looks cold,
I wear a coat.
If it looks rainy,
I wear boots.
If it looks dark,
I wear nothing and
if the birds are out
I wear a hat.

I save my ghillie suit for the apocalypse.

She thinks it's funny
that I say it's her office.

I, myself, find it funny
that she thinks the scent
that marks it is imperceptible.

I could run my neck down
every single inch of furniture
and **** in every corner,
but my claims will never
be heard nearly as loud.

I see the thunder
for the first time
behind lidded eyes
like a resurgent trip
from younger years.

I can’t sleep
so- I lay
and I wait,
or dream
in the non-conventional sense.

It’s the third of July
but unlike John Prine
I guess
tomorrow
I’ll be eating at my mother’s.