**** a poem, this is Lovelution,
Not just a God complex.
We look more like the Jesus, by
Whom you've been saved, 
Than the real messiah. 

The color hierarchy rushed
Away as you left. Swung, behind
Your ringing ears, and my silent phone.
Pain, sniffed up in public, and 
Off of ceramic plates. They couldn't tell
My mouth from magenta.

In richer movies, your room is
Never on the second story. 
Refuge, out of which you sneak, to
Ride towards the runaways. 
Round stone alarms, earnestly aimed. 
"Alert me if 
'Being easy to talk to,' ever
Becomes more than a reason to
Break my heart."

Suddenly everything 
Rushes back as royal and right, as it's
Ever-all been. 
Coffee and jerky
And whiskey and cigarettes, 
Train-tracks, chewed like licorice, and
Volcanoes of molten-virtue. 

What erupted, instead, were
Early-morning talks of
Celestial bodies, and police lights. 
Free-style rap, and the
Frantically Poetic. 

What you should do is 
Get in your car,
Drive to my house,
(Park in the street) and
Blow-up the ****** gas tank.
Call your ex-boyfriend, too, and
Ask if he's awake...

"This time I'll be Capote, and 
You'll be Harper Lee, and, though it's
Sixty-three years later, we still see
Strange Fruit hung on trees."
Sing it again, your majesty. 

Left to resent my capacity for self-poison, my
Penchant for the hip evades me. So I'm
Packed, headed south,
For New Orleans, or the
First solemn smile, on which worthy 
Summers are staked. She sings:

"We wanted more
From behind our sighs,
Maybe ***** hands, 
Maybe tired thighs...
But believed that there
Was relief in closing eyes..."

So suddenly everything rushes back,
As red and as blue as it's
Ever-all been. 
And I dreamt it went different,
And I dreamt I ****** up,
And I dreamt I bought a dog, 
And I dreamt about your stomach.

I used to be a good listener
Now, "I'm sure I've heard that before."
Arguing with Eros, arrogant, erudite.
At odds with his arrows. Even angry.

Bumping numbered reminders of the
Year I was leaving behind,
Headed for the hyphen.
Orange gunk, proper circumstance, and
Cagey, coughing.
"I want to be
Soaked in style, and left
Drying on a dusty line. See...

"I'm an ugly *******,
But my eyes are alive.
And the tragically beautiful's
All I've got left."
Killing, time and
Battery life, requesting
The chance to
Breathe in my city.

The edges of a crucifix
Etched into his visage.
Looking for good luck, and
"That USA Gold taste,
To remind you of home," in India.
Walking away from a car crash.

Not heavy, dry,
But frozen solid.
Trekking on, past beautiful women that are
Painting their walls.
Poems, pouring from the
Mouths of the desperate,
Echo down the alleys.

"I'm not sure to whom belong these bones,
'Cuz they sure as hell ain't mine." But
Remember? That December? We
Bled blue and silver,
Sledding down seven-foot snow banks, and
Kicked out for stepping on toes.

Boring holiday in Purgatory,
Among old fires, now flat.
Hornet-colored, swears she's seen me,
Stinger-out, the gorgeous brat.

Lunar-citrus sour,
Twice, at least. Of course it's more.
Pale, and terrified of foresight,
Uninspired by the cure.

Poison-focused, smoky heart.
You'll find the best nightlife in Hell.
These horns scratch Heaven, battle-scarred,
And my tail's not hidden well.

Uncanny observant stars, 'neath
Sleepy lids, catch a red,
That's not unfamiliar.
-
Past light, she flew, brandished
Guns, in both hands, left-rusty,
But right, always silver.

Rolling studded, bony wrists,
Somehow, mortal in her gaze.
One shot, un-taken, doubt persists,
Losing games she doesn't play

Sulfur-sweat-soaked barrel
Bets the other bullet
"Can't miss."
One canon scrapes my temple.
"Point the second
Between my hips."

A smile! As I am
Obliged, the danger
Briefly gone, but
Then again,
A trigger pulled
Wouldn't quite be worth the song.

"Mean to **** you," now informed, I
Stood up straight, and heard the plan.
My gorgeous rival unaware,
This demon's such a tired man.

Still, for your opaque aura,
Weary throats scream life-alive.
Wondered by unhappy beauty,
Disconnected from your drive.
Normal dealings not requested
Sweetened suffering, in slime.
Assumed, the mantle of the satyr,
Took a breath, and finally rhymed:

"Well honey, you can't **** the Devil,
But would you do me a favor, and try?
I've been wondering, for quite a while now,
Just exactly how it'd feel to die."

She doesn't think I still know about her.
She doesn't know, I still think about her.
I don't know.
I think I still love her. But she...
Doesn't love, I do that enough
For both of us.

Gon' drinkin', out behind a
Reservoir of good will, with
Pillbox eyelids, and third-day dirt.
Stumbling, and suddenly sobered
By a Queen holding Court

Silver-freckled, auburn haired
Sweating under the sun
Shining on her tee shirt
Somewhere, from a secret cigarette
Soft-blue silk is rising.

Men wearing armor, the color of
Christmas lights, stand guard.
Invisible, if not for an
Incessant rain, insisting on
Their silhouettes.

Bronze icons, the rubble beneath her.
Returned to their birth-site, the
Brush and broken glass of a
Resin-colored dusk.
"If you're having trouble
With your next one, it won't be
Too hard to light it for you. I know
How fast tears can
Dowse a needed flame."

Still the snow-covered stick of dynamite, and a
New stick is now burning,
Behind all the bushes.
True belief in her
Opportunity for rebuttal.

Boot prints in the courtyard
Press a face that look up at us
"Like a cross-between Kurt Cobain and Jesus."
Martyrs of a movement
Our people fail to understand.

Polite to the end, and even
Presented with the
Crowned homecoming of a higher horizon, she
Spins and falls, deliberately sputtering out
"Don't let me get smoke in your eye."

The addictive aroma of
Well-aged nostalgia, and a
Hurricane-yellow sunset, was
Striking from the Western Side.
The east, full of forest. It
Often goes Unappreciated. 

Sat alone, and gritting his teeth
Over it, his forehead wet,
Losing patience, sweating 
Droplets, wiped up by the
Dollars you couldn't afford to spend.
Outwardly expressing: "Overwhelmed."

Born of the burning woods, and 
Left to ash, again, with the leaves, the
Scent settled, clearly set on
Sticking around. 

In the mood to bleed, and
Drag some metal, through the 
Dirt caked on your legs?
Filth burns brighter indoors, and my
Power's just gone out. 

But you cast quite a shadow, when 
Lightning interrupts the black.  
"Storm'd been on it's way for a while.
I'm relieved, it finally hit us. 
Fair weather felt dishonest. "

Long hair's got a few more days left in it,
Bags under his eyes, not quite full, 
Intent on the ideal, and
Going out on his shield.
Decrying the Curse of the Under-employed.

Barking beckons him back, and 
Beneath his broken heart, beating,
Beyond a reasonable doubt, 
Buggering on. Exhaustingly enthusiastic. 
The howled woofs, and selected drum lines.
Droning, diligent, 
"And pleased to meet you, darling."

He flips open one of his 
Boxes, counts to seventeen, and sighs. 
Puts a cigarette between his lips. 
Lights it. Counts to sixteen, and sighs. 
Closes that box, and buys another. 

"One third of what he says is nonsense, but
When you talk, he listens." And 
Love's a vice, he can't help but
Nourish. Hiding in fog, and
Drowning in his cheap whiskey. 
Perfectly cornered, writing a poem about it.

One of these days, I'll move out of this place.
The Greyness making saving throws at my shadow, but my resolve concrete, and my vision clear, each step away being a decision. 
The television will dim, and the sun'll get hotter. 
And my skin will be tanner. 
And I'll smoke more of everything. 

One day we'll be sitting in my backyard, laughing at ourselves, for ever thinking we were "far away from this." 
We'll marvel at the greenness of the grass and the blueness of the sky and the anger of the heat and the deception of the trees. 
We'll argue about whether thirty can be as big as five can be small. 
We'll mix gin with our Newports and ash cigars into Dunkin Brand Styrofoam. 
The memories will blur, but the lessons stand steadfast. 

One day is often quite a few days away. 
Quite a few rounds of poker, about a thousand movies, a couple billion YouTube clips, and at least three unfinished projects. 
The slime gets thicker every day, and we're never given the assurance that our boots can take the inevitable torment. 
But once in a while, I can think of the future. 
I get stuck on tracing the outline you'll have two years from now, coloring it in with shades of pink and red paint, and writing your name over it in grease and alcohol. 
Hoping to make the image as permanent as the ringing of someone perpetually calling out for you, reappropriating all the muted spaces in my head.
And hearing it shouted, again and again, and seeing it written in places unseen, can somehow make one day seem more like tomorrow.