He buys his fashion from the Red Cross,
from the blind, the deaf, and the distracted.
In afternoons, he trades sobriety for a smile,
as he sears his pork-chops,
as he sweats beneath the extractor fan.

There are too many poems in life.
They average out the anomalies,
and so all brilliance is masked in utter failure,
and all mistakes become wonders
in their misdirected sorrow.

He drinks in the middle of the day,
surrounded by broken families and students.
He's planning the next beer or cigarette,
miles away from a career path,
and from holding down any sort of job.

There are a million songs in the sky.
Tortures are fickle and all ***** is demise.
And so, we immediately spark into dance,
as we drink and carve our names upon our tombs,
keeping our ear out for the establishment blues.

He buys friends with his preferential smile.
It causes quietude in all and any aggression.
In all fits of mood and dissolution of fact,
he reminds himself that change is tomorrow,
if only he learns to fall asleep unaided.