they were always three sheets to the wind anyway,
the idiots.
together we would shriek and raid ears
as we rolled across the parking lots.
the ice and snow were never cold enough
to turn our skin blue, but
we covered ourselves in it anyway.

then they tried lucid visions but they weren't sincere
enough.
they tried caffeine, mescaline, adrenaline.
they tried to go the whole nine yards
and only got eight.
i spat in their faces, the hipster *****,
as mortality flaunted her **** in front of me.

handicapped and average,
i put a toe out of line and it was returned to me
mangled.
i dredged the barrel and found limes in
the cracks and the wood tasted of hops.
i was a visiter and you all hung from the ceiling,
cradled in my scarves.

i woke up and saw white walls and
the umbrella in the corner was no longer tangible.

at 9, my father took me to confess.
i crossed myself and stepped into
the closet-like space.
"bless me, father, for I have sinned."

at 10, my mother took me to church.
baptist. southern. the pastor spit venom from his pulpit.
they taught me to fear god
and live my life through christ.

at 15, my friend took me to her synagogue.
i sat with her family as her sister
recited text from the torah.
we celebrated her bat mitzvah. held her high on a chair.

at 17, my best friend took me to mosque.
we washed our feet and dressed in tunics
and prayed towards mecca
and recited words from the koran. we were placed behind the men.

the same pattern was played,
over and over again.
swear to whatever god owned
that shrine
that you would give your life for him.
and make no mistake, because by divine reason, it is a him.
and always,
               always,
                     always,
                          get down on your knees.
and pray.

i remember thinking every ******* time
that prostitutes and disciples
seemed awfully alike.        
and then i thought,
"they're probably right about god being male."

look at you, doll,
all straw stiff and still.
you stand there with your hands
on your hips, clutching
them in veneration. they wait to secrete
their venom.
your favorite thing to do was to always shoot
me the "**** me" eyes in a crowded room. you were told
to stay away. you still
asked for it. so, i made you beg.

but before,

she told me we were only cogs
in a clock.
i told her there was more than time,
but i didn't mean it.

i was adamant, demanding flesh.

i was young and stupid.
arrogant.
driving down dirt roads, past the rows of pine trees
my grandfather had planted as
a kid.
i played guitar on the hood of my car and sang
love songs to the moon.
i thought of myself as meaning
while my heathen cousins watched **** and clenched
themselves,
sweat on their necks and dripping
down their backs with no purpose.
mouths hanging open.

but then,

i drove away from her.
i left her naked, yet warm.
my friends told me i needed a sign around my neck
that read "proceed with caution."
reflectors and all so they could find their clothes.
i couldn't disagree. though
she couldn't say she didn't see it coming.
she was a release i needed at the best of worst
moments, nothing more.
i'm sorry for that. but i had warned her
every time.

she lays on the bed
in front of me.
bare skin all over.
i lift my shirt off
at the foot off her bed.

how little faith the night
has in me,
putting money on my exhaustion.

we pull the covers over us, my
face in her neck.
scratch, bite, pull, push.
my hair goes from unkept to untame
like a lion's mane in the dry heat
of the sun.

and like a lion, i feast on her
body.
the curves below and above her hips.
her shoulders,
the nape of her neck.
minutes turn to hours
and her breathing in my ear
reminds me of our pulses.

the most holy moment of my life
remakes itself almost every day
and night
and spills over into the morning
all over itself.

no patience.
but i keep it to a dull roar.

at the last moment, we find
ourselves breathless
and still wanting more.

i walk into my grandparents house.
a one story country house tucked into
the nicest neighborhood in town.
immediately, nicotine grips my nose
and i see a bit of brown seeping from
the walls.
60 years of smoking showing its ugly face.

my younger cousin runs and grabs my legs.
a blue-eyed, blonde-headed 4 year old
who looks like she could be my daughter.
Audrey says hi with her smile and runs
off to play with Max in the dirt.

i sit down with a cup of coffee like a
proper adult.
my family tells me i'm still the spitting image of
my uncle, who was shot in the fourth grade.
a boy brought a gun to school.
it was an accident.

everybody makes small talk.
i don't talk much, which my family has come to
accept.
Thanksgiving hasn't been the same since my
grandmother passed.
nobody tries to pretend anything's different, which
i think is good.

my grandfather stares into the distance and
doesn't talk much either.
everybody tells me we're alike.
i can finally see it.

i drive to Jim Ray's gas station (a family friend)
and buy some batteries for the kid's toys.
the lady, who i assume is related to Jim Ray
stares at me as i cross the store.
i place my purchase on the counter and
like lightning,
she grabs my hand.

"oh my god, you look just like Mark Brown."

she says this with tears in her eyes.
i tell her how we're related and
she says to tell everyone at the house "hello."

"alright, thanks."

i don't go back for a couple of hours.
everybody seems to cry for one reason or another
and one reason is always my resemblance.
i understand plastic surgery.

work is over
for everyone
but me.
i'm left alone
at my desk,
the only light
coming from my computer screen.

it speaks to me:

"what the ****
are you staring at?"

i get up and leave.

night fell asleep waiting
for my departure.
the highway was empty at 5
in the morning
and the sunrise felt personal.

2 cigarettes left in a yellow box,
Ryan Adams, Rocky Votolato,
and John Coltrane filled the car.
my head was light and the coffee
i swallowed complained it was too cold
inside of my insides.

i can never slow down.

my uncle told me my face gets more
defined every time.
my aunt said my jaw looks a bit broken.
my grandmother was silent.

but at least my parents were proud
that i left so early to make that
******* final.

it's over.
the flings.
the ballads.
the effort.
it's all an atomic bomb in my head
and i don't ever take cover.
watching while they pass out black daisies

i leave my body for you.