VI
Do as the Romans do, and you’ll be throwing your fellow man into the lion’s den.

VII
I’d hate to bring up the past, but winter breezes stir up dusty memories
and even in the valley where your eyes get hazy,
I could still see a flash of hope, almost an electric jolt,
of almost excitement in the way you spoke,
as if on a podium or by megaphone, and you conducted my heart palpitations
with your whispery lines of poetic communication,
your lips moving in silky staccato fashion,
and if I was the same boy you taught many years ago,
you’d still be playing me
like a violin.

VIII
One drop of whisky has my legs dangling from a 40 story sunrise in the attic of the moon.
My arms are willow tree limbs, flowing into lamp shades blooming on the kitchen floor
With the urgency of a backdoor mail clerk, yodeling demands to a midnight dove.
A casket of prose for a trembling teenage dollar bill, our saints and solitaires,
Whe drunks lay sleeping while our hearts are restless.

IX
While walking down the streets of L.A.,
I still find myself putting the largest, and sharpest, key between my middle and ring fingers.
In the perfect situation, I would be defending myself against an armed foaming lunatic,
and I would be safe, with my makeshift weaponry.
But in the most realistic situation, I would find myself against an asian pick-pocketer,
Carefully surrounding me with one visible edge of a ninja star,
while I tremble,
not feeling as safe with my dull house key.

X
Conclusion. In mid-January, at the beginning of every year,
For the rest of your waking seconds,
You won’t have much control over your thoughts.
The sand. Our soaking jeans. Our aching skin.
You caused such abrasion, and running in this world goes full circle.
My open diary is stitched into your eyelids.
We never meant for this to happen.

03/03/2010

Posted on 03/03/2010
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