Mexican mountains in the distance,
Warmly orange and misted in cool cotton,
Watching the jagged points for crouching witches,
They might watch me…
Standing in the crumbled junk piles,
Of my father’s childhood backyard,
Rat-like cockroaches click around my feet,
As I breath… Fresh air Mexico.

My heart is cringing,
Alcohol cannot cure me,
Heartbreak ain’t funny…

Your lips,
Soft and pale… red and flat,
I lick to moisten them,
They taste like raw flesh,
Of course, they are raw flesh,
And they trace paths to more raw flesh,
Pale, freckled peaks and valleys,
Fragrant, tangy… Pheromonic folds,
Fuzzy and warm,
Fingertips tickle to smooth,
I flick to moisten, Then moan to you,
And whisper to your neck,
Soft and scented,
You open with love.

I haven’t smoked in a week,
I don’t smoke much anyways…
Except when I drink,
How to be vindictive,
With a warm, knowing heart?
I haven’t known anything in a month,
I don’t know much anyways…
Except when I drink.

I looked out across the dusk sad, bare parking lot,
At the late evening sky,
And in contrast to the grey pavement, I saw…
I saw the wistful, deep breathing blue,
I saw the innocent, smiling pink,
I saw the hysterical orange,
I saw the crying, deep purple,
It reminded me of the life I always wanted to live,
And I would have…
If not for the dusk sad, bare parking lot.

The prophet of St. Johns Road told me one night,
That I was going to live to an old, old age,
And father children and be happy!
Ultimately and forever,
And because I have lived, so far, less than perfectly,
He said my children will be guaranteed perfection,
Born by pieces of the stars, however small,
Still part of the universe,
So me, destined to leave behind pieces of the great being,
Asked the prophet, “How is the future so sure?”
And with tears and light in his eyes,
The drunken prophet of St. Johns Road said,
“It’s the way IT is.  We live life to start others and others.”
And I blinked out tears of my own,
With light in my eyes,
The lost and drunken prophet of St. Johns Road blessed me that night,
And so it goes… So it goes.

I chug *** by the wide open window,
I chase the sting with the snapping, cold air,
Into the leftover winter, early March night,
I stare,
Then I draw the shade,
I am ashamed,
But what will I do?
I chug more ***…
And sweat.