graduate weekend

friday night at a husked bar top

made of smoky chaparral

and cactus green paint.

we shot tequila that had no color

and tried on spanish phrases

like we had no color.

dominoes slapped wood

while we multiplied across the table

in equations of ivory rectangles.

the bonepieces weaved

a trail around empty wine bottles

and the ghosts of marijuana seeds.

saturday night in a stripped garage

that spread it's belly open

to the sound of electric guitars.

youth danced in the whisps

of cigarette smoke,

they punched at swollen noise

and shook their bones–

like it was cult ritual

for time killing.

two dollars bought entry

to an impotent keg

and waves of reverb to lull

me into a pre-dawn haze.

sunday on the lawn

and we sprawled in our black robes

like a midnight mass across

the white chairs and morning light.

i walked with my peers

under the gaze of our archaic instructors.

stone faced, these relics of academia

shook our sweaty hands

and mispronounced our names,

like we were a disposable group

to fill in the quiet space

between the commencement

ceremony 4 and ceremony 6.

legs

my wife admires my legs

from not a distance

but from the next cushion

over on our couch.

this couch is a deep blue

and horseshoe shaped—

we're sitting on goodluck.

these legs are not subtle,

covered with a cloak

of black hair that's crowded

like an ny subway.

these are the legs

that taxi my pale bones

from home to job to home.

this my hour of sobriety.

quietlife

sailin' away,

on the ship they call

mid-sized couch

from the port they call

my fiancé's living room.

when they come,

"they" being the keepers

of the faith, of historical annals

told in stiff drinks,

sweating pint glasses

and told with bloody knuckles.

when they come,

tell them i lived by the sword,

like my life was a legendary thing

in certain circles of college students

and suspicious parents.

IE, born and bred

dead by the age of 23.

tell them i floated off

into the ethereal sun drunk sky

accompanied by harp songs—

to the land

called valhalla.

a place where dad's wear moderate shorts

and sensible leather walking shoes.

where i wake up as the night falls asleep

and my last drink was warm water.

a tall tell: i drifted to the heaven,

like the fictional hebrew

in my parents anniversary bible

and my second coming will exist

only in stories, pen script.

so tell them i got engaged,

it was a week into noviembre

and i cried when it happened.

tell them to eat their fucking hearts out.