under pressure, I steal the title from Queen

snakewalker

each day I see this guy - on my way home from work. he's this odd young man, he wears a wife-beater, long shorts, bandana, but that's not the odd thing. . . . he dons a yellow snake with faint brownish spots around his neck. a fat snake, really long too. in his right hand, a leash, attached to a pit bull. they all seem to froth at the mouth. today he looked me right in the eye, even though I'm in my car making a right hand turn as speedy as possible. and I what I want is to get rid of that image. odd huh.

Glossy

my eyes are shut against this high-rise window seat I can't hear the cars with them closed this way, but I can hear how they tread the wet december with them open and I just know your eyes are closed but you know I'm out here moving along the mud with my tongue dragging behind me eating the words you leave out the words you don't say you are a devil I hate myself for doing that but I am so exquisite in that dead-walk pathetic and hollow tv watcher maybe devil, that's why you stopped looking my way.

there is the wasteland to consider

now that I'm done, I'm in the middle, and sick of being with myself the way myself used to be about 6 months ago I can feel it sucking me from the jaw down to my feet, across my chest, rotting my hands, stealing the gloss away from what is outside my door the truth is I am afraid of life, as boring as that sounds, afraid of conversations that lead to questions- I have idea what to even say anymore numb effects of one trying to become what one clearly is not loser again, is it ok to do that

dirt verse

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