the floor
there is
no going
back
to the
form
it once
took.
"In the present we are always in memory." - Trish Keenan
Sitting in the rusted (out?) wrecks of ourselves
We share meals at long tables
Like Mexican royalty
As they bring our plates
Of chile rellenos,
Burros, huevos y mas.
Our blood is primed
From drink, our lungs
And skin resonate
With the smoke
We’ve inhaled.
We laugh,
We share
The burden we’ve willed
Onto ourselves.
City lights glow outside,
Humming loudly
But drowned
By the rhythms
Of the tires
Passing by.
When the silence comes
will you hear what you’ve been missing?
Your tongue forgets
what your hands remember;
isn’t that
always the case?
______________
In these dreams we become the beasts
we had always hoped to be.
_______________This lust blinds us.
_______________
Driving the madness away and back again.
_______________