words

i drew an ak-47 in the dirt
and called it love,
i circled it with a heart
and made annotations
in the margins of the grass
to extrapolate through the act
some more complete idea of this,
of you, and you, and you.

i am drunk before the sun has set
and i watch the road
for the headlights and dust
of your approach
and seeing nothing i turn inward
this external need for a connection,
this shorting of asynchronous circuits.

i watch the evening bleed out
through blood red curtains
and i drink more and feel less,
swirling about in my own memories
i am thus a man of fire and alcohol,
burning every way as i write
the same words over and over again
because i think the same thoughts
over and over again,
the same forward progression
of you, and you, and you.

my tongue laminates
the dull shade of my teeth
as i glean grains of wisdom
from the daily labor of your memory,
your fingers moving rapidly
through dollars and wine bottles,
i echo your economics of alcoholism
and amoral self-indulgence,
praying the night hides my sins,
this impressionist of bad habits.

-S.C. Martinez