Make friends with smoke, don’t be surprised when you fall in love
with the fire.
Living in a daze, wouldn’t
sobriety a liar?
Yeah, the situation’s dire,
and my general attire for such situations is
some rag where
the cashmere coats should be.
My hair might be higher than me,
trying to recapture the
of younger days.
You know, back in the day, you were almost popular and I was just a hustler of your affections; it all broke away in sections like islands in an earthquake.
You know, back in our golden age, you were hope’s huckster and I was your last supper in wait.
I’m a fugitive of fate and I don’t need you to chase me, only to hold onto these handcuffs and satiate this arrested development, emotionally celibate as it is sexually opaque.
If love ain’t a race,
why am I running with numbers on,
chasing some blonde ambition in a
war of attrition with
If this future does not
have a finish line to its name,
what ribbon am I waiting
from parallel sentences, and
carry forward into first place?
Back in the day, I had none of these
questions, so bear with me while
I entertain them.
To not do so would
be a waste of all the miles around
myself I’ve run.