without a single shred of context,
i murder in masses, have a penchant
for glasses, and will never trust
another yellow buttondown.
i'm ruined.
even as a scholar i'll turn up any turned-down
dog-eared page with a Bukoswki
poem, venom churning,
because my heart is still burning
from her hands.
it's all got to burn. every
memory, trashy television program
and gum flavor. i should have ran,
but i'm doing all the running
now.
in the scope of this life that leaps
as fast from me as it snares my feet,
there are greater things to be done
than try to name the color and shape
of love.
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