little things

I want to be the one who holds out the sleeve of your corduroy jacket as you put it on
the one you think of when the waitress asks if you'd like a to-go box for that
the one whose hands you seek if you've forgotten your gloves
the one whose nighttime sighs and stirs create the silly soundtrack of your dreams
and I want to be all of the little things in this big world that keep you safe and warm.

stars

You’ve jumped through all those fiery hoops
Groomed yourself meticulously, hiding those burns
Gotten that blue ribbon that hangs sad in your room like the tulip you found in the childhood fields of your dreams, now pressed
The jaundiced lamp flickers, and from the white tiles you see it collecting dust
And you realize that it's made of the same slick fabric that lined your grandmother's casket

Lint particles and hair follicles fall atop the cheap threads like the first snow of winter
covering the fading inscription as grass clippings do on a gravestone
And before you pass out again,
Exhausted, emaciated, dark half moons sinking beneath your bloodshot eyes
You smile, entrenched in your own filth
And a single thought whips through your mind quicker than that blue ribbon,
soon to be coated by the cobwebs hanging heavy in the corners
“I’ve won,
At least I’ve won.”

The silvery night sky blankets your lone frame as you remain silent and curled
Bright star, have we ever been anything more than white dwarfs?

the snake

You follow the road, or rather
It follows you
With its smooth, submissive yellow spine
Tires keep treading on its asphalt-like axons
Mapping out all of its curves and exploiting its intimate mysteries
Just toss your shit out the window and accelerate
Don’t ever look back, you say

Why are you so surprised when you crash
That the road on which you travel is nothing more than a concrete snake
The pretty night sky is really her sooty pit
And that you’re just a mouse who dreams of wings
Oh, you’ve never been a predator but always the prey

She hissed and rattled her black tail when you gained too much speed
on her thin, single-lane skin
But you howled carelessly as you took another drag, another swig, another heart
Tossing out the bottles and the bodies when you were through
Well, confidence kills
The oil-slicked venom sticks and you’re stuck, paralyzed and blue
And the snakes have no sympathy for you
No, the snakes don’t have any sympathy for you.

we are special and deserving

the parking lot intellectual sucks on his non-fat soy starbucks while reading the second part of a free publication spelled d-e-u-x as the exhaust from droves of dodge durangoes and ford escorts spews its filth on his tattered-on-purpose navy pants. there are fingerprints smudged all up and down their windows like bacteria cultures on expired bread. and on the back of one i see a penis etched in dust and a bumper sticker proclaiming in bold and ALL CAPS that MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT. i stand there, clutching a brownish liquid that may or may not give me cancer, soaking in the grease that comes with the genetically modified fried chicken that the fat vietnam vet purchased and is now carrying to his honda. i no longer need to condition my hair tonight. the same tattered buick goes round and round the lot, its broken muffler coughing and hacking like my grandfather with COPD. it finally exhales as it finds a parking spot right next to the good, handicapped ones. i wonder how often people consider bashing in their knees to get a good parking spot. meanwhile, a rip van winkle lookalike has made his way from the back of the lot to the automatic doors because opening one yourself is just too much to ask. it's sad, the way he clings to his walker he resembles a lovebug smeared, smacked, and sizzling on a windshield in summertime. as if entering the fluorescent funeral home to embalmed food in bright, cardboard caskets is the difference between life and death.
which is also upsetting because really it's just the bridge. a young man finally emerges from the diseased buick, licking his fingers as he tucks his shirt into his denim shorts, except it doesn't quite reach. i can see the outlining of his navel and am reminded of my favorite moon, io.i wonder if he smells as sulphuric. probably so. a young woman exits the store with grocery bags and three children on hot pink leashes that say "family" in bubble letters. and then as i chug on my cancer cola, i look into the security camera and see a sullen collegiate draped in black who obviously has it all figured out.
i guess that's me. well my car is parked here too, eating up at the atmosphere with each unnecessary mile i drive just because. and we all keep circling the parking lot, looking for the best spot because that's what we deserve, licking our fingers and sucking down our shit, waiting for doors to open for us because opening them ourselves is just too much to ask.