i only think the new winter nights
remind me of the older ones
when my
eyes would shut thinking about
a walk around empty shoreside towns
suggesting
gaping hollowed faces with their crumbling remains,
wind strewing sand
through teeth slowly disengaging
to make with some old memory or unraveling rant
on the depth of human misery and
its correlation with violence and exploitation;
or how you could never really trust a person
to know what they should want, which was reason enough
to never trust any of 'em:
maybe he's put his car keys into too many baskets
to even know what to forgive and what to forget.

i feel like i could sit sun baked and staring
at crackling brown hands fingering the stoic non-faces of
black and white chessmen, listening to
them argue about
where we should have gone or go, or the
various merits of the
girls they fucked and
girls they've known;
how little it means to whisper something
always told to someone else;
and just how well they've done for themselves
despite the odds they're stacked against