My road to excess was paved with broken glass
I learned fast ya gotta kiss ass and that’s not my specialty
see, LA has never felt like home to me
So many ears here full of wax that want meaningless facts
Like, what kind of Rolex is that or how long will Tom and Katie last?

The Fall made me willing. Not just for him but for all of it. For the giggling and the grabbing and the colors we kicked all over the park. And for the chit chat at the kitchen table when five o’clock lingered into evening like the disappearing smoke of a snuffed-out match. Bobby watched the drop of fire on the candlewick flicker and interrupted me when it held still. How strange, he said, look. Look at that. The flame looks smooth like water… Like water running over a worn-out stone. He leaned toward me to light a cigarette on the candle and blew smoke in my eyes. Cut the shit, Bobby, I said. You know my Daddy used to do that before he’d burn me. His five o’clock shadow stood on end like an angry porcupine’s quills. “Don’t bring your lousy life in here,” he said.

At the bus stop bench, he looks like a salvaged medical experiment, but he sits there, with the shotgun wound in his head, and passers-by crane their necks to get a better view at the freak show which is Stuart. Remington blast leftovers. With the self-inflicted crater in his brow healed up six-months by now, he sits sweating in the hot afternoon sun and glares out boldly at traffic with his one remaining good eye. And as the cars rush by, each tinted face inside stares; stunned by the puzzling disfigurement which they can’t quite put their finger on. Though above all else, one thing is Stuart’s greatest torment to date: With a single hazel eye can he now easily divine every shift of recognition at his violence to another heart done.

Fractured bodies strewn amid the
mushroom cloud of ignorance
the battlefield belies the true seeds
that give birth to the power of deception.
The corporate leviathan devours the remainder
of our innocence
and barricades our tears,
as we lay violated
and we take our place
in the Book of the Dead.

Season of flutes
and bare arms,
the ruckus of bees
at the door,
snarl of fire engines
in this desert.