Monday 2/13/2006 11:50:00 PM

The orange streetlights. The pale purple sky. They almost make me wish pain could always be this gentle. If it were enough, but it never is.

The orange streetlights that wear suburbia on their hips. Every dark night painted over in the warm glow that denial persists.

The pale, purple sky. Eager with the next blizzard. To fill the grocery stores. To empty the houses. And the schools. To drive us back home again.

The crowded store now empty from. Their hoarding hands still on the cameras.

How much can we want. How much must be have. Until it's enough.

The snow falls. In tiny pieces of the world. One by one. Smothering their lives in what they can't control.

The orange streetlights that paint the black roads so much softer. The pale, purple sk that conjure some primitive trigger.

You think you're helpless now. Because. But you've always been.

Unbutton those obligations to which you subscribe and see how much is exposed.

Loosen that necktie you refer to as truth and see if you can breathe again.

I'd like to say I don't need it to hurt. But time after time that's what I do.

Maybe it's this hard or it might just be my delusion.

No matter what else we have, there's always the truth.

How it kisses like a cold sore. How it fucks like a john.

The trick is to get paid before you let it feel you.


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2018. All Rights Reserved.