buzzin'

We would leave our ego’s at the door

muddy shoes.

Puffing joints twisted with conviction

hissing tranquility .

Our tongues dripping with authenticity and fear

we’d spit.

Casting our iron stomachs from scratch

cheap liquor.

Stumbling upon the true depths of the optic-nerve

the soul.

miss it.

I spasmodically catch myself drifting back up there

nobody’s home.

It’s been quite some time since you lived there

still, I visit.

Sometimes if I’m lucky I’ll still catch our vibes

floating around.

It won’t ever compare to the real thing

we shared,

times have changed but I’ll make do.

The love letters I keep under my pillow read more like death threats these days

this brings me to the conclusion that St. Valentine and I aren’t on good terms

not now

not ever

and in the midst of this of this tragic realization

I hear what sounds like bereavement at my doorstep

lo and behold

it is Eros.

He arrives to me filthy, bleary, bloody and spent

with no idea he is seventeen centuries too late

and from the looks of him now

he’s clearly a lover not a fighter

but being the son of two great gods

I thought him a warrior; quick with a bow

but no he

is just a

reminder to tend the roses back at the

Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, Rome.

I got sick and the origin was my gut.

My gastrointestinal track hosted an army of bacteria left behind after years of unsanitary human interaction.

The constant inhalation of mendacity and bullshit finally shut down my detoxification mechanisms allowing the microorganisms to prefect their blueprints and break ground.

Colonization was only natural; they bypassed my immunity battalion completely and went straight for my brain, shutting down all key functions resulting in aphasia.

Maybe the loss of speech is a benediction for my soul  finally to move forward and limit contact with my fellow man and conquer far-away lands.

Sipping whiskey, penning postcards that never meet the back side of a stamp.

pawn off the silver  immediately.

we have spent too much time

together in the goldmines

to know better than to

fall for that juvenile

bull-shit, jabber.

We do have a

kingdom to

tend to.

Striving toward a Ph.D in your anatomy is enough to keep me sane

until the seventh of March when you finally touch down

we shall dine finely filling our bellies with egg-whites and home-fries

in the corner of the local, grimy diner

you know the one you hate so much

yet we always find ourselves there  sharing a toast over burnt coffee

spiked with my native Auld Stag

courtesy of the flask buried in the privacy of my bag.