A quiet kid,
lonely in the rain,
fingers the nickels and pennies
in his pockets, waiting for the bus
to splash around the corner,
so he can get to work.
He lives with a demon of a roommate,
and shares snores with the roaches,
Bathing in the shower of their incontinence.
After college, he lost it and wrecked his mind
in a haze of liquor so foggy it
swallowed the moon for awhile.
He stumbles through pitch black nights
with an ugly soul and redemption on his mind;
The worst kind of late night wanderer.
Coffee and sugar keep him alive--
just like war and famine are the black angel's wives--
bringing him back into this liquid reality.
In the mornings he breathes in this world,
totally sober.
It tastes like sourness
and the milk of ***** entrapped in blue jeans
in 100 degree weather
all day.
It was the worst kind of sobriety.
All the horrors of birth.
He lives many lives:
One for his mother,
where he plants fruitless kisses
on her cheeks.
Little wreaths of future disappointment.
She hugs him so warmly.
It makes him want to suckle his .45.
One for work,
all smiles
and plumb submission.
9-5.
5-2.
12-9.
6-3.
4-12.
And if he's lucky
12-4 on saturdays.
All this in 5 dollar clothes
and a rumplestiltskin attitude;
trying to weave his own ugliness
into truth.
One for his girl,
the one who'd hurl her tongue at Appollo,
puke up her month's sugar intake,
and curl her fingers so tight that she cut the cappillaries,
making a red and white fist like a christmas cinnabon:
If he ever told her who he really was.
His love for her is secret.
One life for himself,
to keep the mirror happy.
This kid.
He's all or nothing.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
A quiet kid,
lonely in the rain,
fingers the nickels and pennies
in his pockets, waiting for the bus
to splash around the corner,
so he can get to work.
He lives with a demon of a roommate,
and shares snores with the roaches,
Bathing in the shower of their incontinence.
After college, he lost it and wrecked his mind
in a haze of liquor so foggy it
swallowed the moon for awhile.
He stumbles through pitch black nights
with an ugly soul and redemption on his mind;
The worst kind of late night wanderer.
Coffee and sugar keep him alive--
just like war and famine are the black angel's wives--
bringing him back into this liquid reality.
In the mornings he breathes in this world,
totally sober.
It tastes like sourness
and the milk of ***** entrapped in blue jeans
in 100 degree weather
all day.
It was the worst kind of sobriety.
All the horrors of birth.
He lives many lives:
One for his mother,
where he plants fruitless kisses
on her cheeks.
Little wreaths of future disappointment.
She hugs him so warmly.
It makes him want to suckle his .45.
One for work,
all smiles
and plumb submission.
9-5.
5-2.
12-9.
6-3.
4-12.
And if he's lucky
12-4 on saturdays.
All this in 5 dollar clothes
and a rumplestiltskin attitude;
trying to weave his own ugliness
into truth.
One for his girl,
the one who'd hurl her tongue at Appollo,
puke up her month's sugar intake,
and curl her fingers so tight that she cut the cappillaries,
making a red and white fist like a christmas cinnabon:
If he ever told her who he really was.
His love for her is secret.
One life for himself,
to keep the mirror happy.
This kid.
He's all or nothing.
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