pink squirts still taste like shit
even on tuesday afternoons in the midst of other people’s tourniquets,
even in the midst of my own.
even in the best hightop sneakers,
and even at the behest of flying in the face of my own flaws,
and their high noons.
isolation isn’t just a circumstance,
it’s the high crime of furloughed destitution,
the decision amidst the bellowing walls of mourning,
the decision amidst the lack of trumpets or clarities or gum.
and the tapshoes I’m wearing don’t have shine..
and the flashfloods don’t come with the gifts that should be inherant in them..
the gift of passage and release.
No.
the headlights still shine brightly,
into the night..
but the lines on the road will not break,
and even in that she who usually knows peace because she accepts it as so,
feels nothing in the face of the gun.
pegasus vs. pumpernickel
