brown dead grass salutes
the hemingway afternoon i’ve been craving.
cleaning the shotguns, oil and exaggerations.
tossing cruel poems at the sun.
my hair falls to my waist because i am young.
the guitarist surrounds himself with pretty stick figures.
they all notice my mystery and pale skin.
it’s time to cook the hamburgers.
i’m on meth so i volunteer.

these are heavy days of hope and heat,
acid stomachs and angels.
the drummers wife wants a group photo.
i turn up the grille and smile.

on days such as this i am almost human,
surviving despite the sun and conversation.
everyone loves me because i write the lyrics,
they call me genius behind my back.

i submerge myself in a cradle
of whiskey and wine,
mere moments from complete, ugly madness.
brown dead grass will not hold me up forever,
i am always crowded and terrifyingly alone.

there is murmuring about rock hard hamburgers,
i am excused, i have not slept in four days
and the taste of your knee has numbed my instincts.

i want to confess to somebody, everything.
the fear of exhaling.
the feeding frenzy upon waking.
it’s time for another group photo.
everyone is waiting for me.
everyone is always waiting for me.

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