No stars. No hope.

Black sand paper like shingles scratch up my back as I lay two stories tall with cigarette in hand. The consistent list is on my mind once more. You, Her, that other one, boot camp, the remainder of my cigarette, the length of my intoxication, but the thing that strikes me most is the lack of stars on my horizon. Are they coming out for you tonight? Do they sparkle, dance, and dazzle you? Perhaps. They say what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, I can certainly attest to that. Once able to drown my sorrow with whiskey until his dreadful moans lessened and became nothing but joyful gurgles. But now a bottle and a half down, I only see strangers in arm's length.
Admiration only means anything if you agree with your soothsayers.  The one joy I've gotten from a stranger's observation was fleeting. "You have 'don't Fuck with me eyes'" I was told by a dominatrix while I was losing my mind at a crowded sex party in Chicago. She had eyes that told me Her Father hadn't given Her enough attention. After being locked up, running free sounds desirable. Boring sex. Palatable tastes are no longer regarded as valid.
I want nothing more than to be happy. What I need to be happy makes me miserable at the thought.

Past the Iris

Hunched over the green felt like a sniper, taking aim.

Stripes, Solids. Good or Evil.

It makes no difference. 

Calculated stares behind steel rimmed glasses and a handle bar mustache. 

The kind of mustache you'd picture God having. 

Pull, Push, and Release. Sunk. 

Another game, another drink.

Banter back and forth, wooden weapons in hand used to occasionally steady one's self. 

An amphetamine soul, chugging cigarette after cigarette.

Enamel grinds against enamel. 

Thousand. Yard. Stare. 

Sure, He's got the Girl.

But you've got.

You've got..

You've.. Got...

You've got something special. Man.

No, I mean it. 

Ten thousand drooping eye conversations into the morning regarding the secrets of the Universe

Cold and warm hands held until their temperatures match

Staring past the iris, into the soul

Claims of Love. Of heartbreak. Of Truth and Intention.

Anyone who has noticed my smile was definitely looking for it.

Demoralization

A generation that no longer watches pornography due to boredom

While video footage of car crashes,
Played over and over and once more in slow motion
(Twisted  metal. Pools of mixing auto and bodily fluids. Blood stained air bags. Silent onlookers.)
,Only satisfies through the teenage years

Hiding under the covers while under the influence
Running fingers over whiskey thin ribs
A prisoner idly playing with the bars on his cell

Tricks, Games, and Trains

The kids play games
Clack......Clack......Clack.
The kids get bored of suburbia and comfort and safety
Clack.....Clack.....Clack.
The kids in groups of four or five or six gather and hide behind false courage and grins
Clack....Clack....Clack.
The kids place their necks on the train tracks all together
Clack...Clack...Clack.
The kids see who can hold their skinny neck against the cold vibrating steel the longest
Clack..Clack..Clack.
The kids watch the light of the steady locomotive approach
Clack.Clack.Clack.
The kids follow the leader
ClackClackClack.
Young Men have died for less.

Memory

Under the radar is where it's most comfortable
Trouble differentiating between you making me sick
      or giving me butterflies
No true validation
Nothing behind the Money
No Justice behind the sentencing
In God we trust you'll fucking pay us back
Circulation in my body is poor, leaving my hands perpetually cold
The perfect excuse for "Hey, feel my hands. Aren't they freezing?"
Tricking my way into getting a glimpse of another's warmth

Memories are solidified by emotion
Episodes come back like getting the chills

Standing barefoot, grabbing pieces of grass with my tattooed toes, weeping gently to myself, trying to say goodbye to my Mother on that comfortable June day.

Moving back in time.

....Disbelief. Quickly followed by rage I'd not known I contained as I pounded on the steering wheel, yelling pleas and demands of Love in Your general direction. Hot tears ran down while the smell of a clove cigarette traveled out the window, A frigid newborn Winter traveling in.

Packing up and running away instead of post-coitus talk of admittance of guilt and forgiveness.

Emotion solidifies memory and my inability to cry these days assure me I'll remember and regret nothing.

Thin Air

Irony often lost on the majority while coincidence is mislabeled. Language, this tool we've created out of thin air, is constantly warping on it's own accord. Nothing is set in stone as the Mother's tears that fall on us all have shown us. Cleansing and resettling It all back to zero.

My Mistress, Spring.

The first moments of Spring waking from slumber start with her shaking the cold from her Womanly figure. Watch the bare branches quiver post-orgasm in the wind from the temperature/paradigm/pressure change. Still early in the morning, She and those with lesser eyes feel She isn't ready until her makeups on and leaves are on branches but I see her beauty regardless of circumstance and outfit. Spring is stirring from Her sleep. I kiss her eyelids, welcoming her to the light of a new day.