Wrestling Wounds
The awe of
the old
wrestling tapes we
watched in
your room; we
imitated their
moves on
the trampoline in
your driveway.
There was a
cacophony of
steel, wire, and
glowing tubes.
After one
match, we inspected
each other’s wounds.
You told
me there was
a gash on
my back that
resembled our
lives and I
didn’t believe you.
You flashed
it in your
eyes and
I just
shrugged it off.
We had a
beer and
watched the
sky explode before
I went to
the emergency room.
I stitched
it myself with
lies and
reels of our
every bad
match together.
Your Room
Our bottles strayed
across your
room where
we watched
old movies and
played dusty
video game discs.
We did
impressions of
people that were
so spot
on that even
that stars were jealous.
Our lungs grew
muscles after
every joke we
let slither into
the country air.
We could bury
ourselves in
rivers and
still survive hours after.
Metallica and
Black Label
Society gave us
a soundtrack to
our stagnancy,
We still
reached the
moon, regardless.
Road Trips
The weeping
sky feel from
its sanctuary onto
the hood of
your car as we
travelled the
tri-state area.
We stopped at
restaurants and
danced in
the dining rooms.
I burned you some
albums and
we listened to
them as
the horizon got
closer than your
relationship with God.
Our hands
clasped and we
never looked
in the
rearview at
our destinations.
We only
gazed into
the inevitability of
each other.
Embrace Like Gasoline And Bruised Matches
Another can
raised to the
overseeing eye of
my ceiling fan, we
imbibed from
the aluminum
chalice to
fill our
sadness with
so much
fire that
it would
fall apart in
an orange and
blue catastrophe.
We listened to
Smashing Pumpkins on
Youtube and
talked about
everything from
disease to
the makeshift
gears of
our brains.
Conversations got
so deep that,
at times, we
thought we would
never see air.
We always made
our way
up, to
embrace like
gasoline and
bruised matches.
The mirrors of
our non-existence only
reflected one
another and
we can’t
stop the sight.
Friday Night Astronomy
Every Friday, we
would go to
the grocery
store and
then walk to
the video store.
We shot
placentas through
our noses, playing
on high
beams and
forklifts as if
they were cradles.
Inside the
rental place, Elvis
danced across
time itself to
a tune of excitement.
We browsed through
pixelated planets, debating
on which
one we would
inhabit for
the weekend.
It would
either be a
hospitable place or
one that
needed nuked but
we always had
a good
time whether we
lived
or died.
Collecting Nights
The sidewalks of
this town bowed
before our
crimson feet as
we jumped from
one building to
another.
We drank our
weight from the
Monongahela River.
The sepsis settled
in our brain
stems and
whispered song
lyrics into
our veins.
We met
friends who
did the
same so we
embraced them in
our hearts like
abandoned children.
The change in
our pockets was
tossed to
the mouth of
the river, a
tip for another
great night we
put away on
a shelf with
the others.
Mutual Tears
You would
meet me on
the streets behind
my apartment.
We lit
cigarettes with
mutual tears and
inhaled the
grief as we
told inside
jokes to an
audience of mirrors.
Tossing the
regrets into a
vast never, we
would hop into
your car just
to travel familiar roads.
Pop-punk vibrated
the doors as
we laughed at
every sign that
lead us to a
destination of nothing.
Love and
disgust were
left in
our dust but
not out
of sight.
The coal in
our veins turned
pink in the
presence of
one another.
We bled without
wounds, licking
the salt with
smiles of dust.
Alien Buddha Press 