Spring: End
I’ve tried more
than once, to
count my vices.
On paper and walls,
skin and the humidity
of southern drawls.
The kind found
in voodoo cemeteries,
when the sun goes dry
and my tie gets loose,
shirt buttons
asking why: the tattoo
of self-loathing on
the roof of my mouth,
is required to make the
muscles finally sleep.
And, I guess it’s hard to
remember what to say,
when the ghosts in my
bedroom keep carrying
me away, to dimly lit
opium dens and house
parties colored,
like Halloween.
Vices make it easier to live,
always one step from dying.
