Only in America could you find a way to make a healthy buck
but still keep your attitude on self destruct.

I used to feel it hovering, painted across my childhood bedroom walls in shadows, a night light it's marquee. I wake up drenched in my own fluid, and now I blame the pin worms, for my old troubles but at the time it's attached to that feeling, the one shuddering in my chest while viewing a parka on the coat tree down the hall, the moon behind it, planted outside the sliding glass doors and a porch that was acquired through a grandmothers death, the financial left overs of mortality and no tupperware in sight. Now that I'm older it's more frantic and based in reality, like waking up to a unfamiliar place after too much to drink and finding out you puked in a not so close acquaintances bed. And it's not the way you can laugh about it later, not the hypochondriac of high school who gets brought to the doctors office for a sand pebble of a cyst on his testicle, laying down in the dark room hands holding a towel across my hips, penis squished in between as my genitals are ultrasound-ed by some latex gloved man.
No now it's the fear that you get in the slamming of breaks and skidding of tires, if I was weaker I wouldn't feel the muscles clench to a rhythm of haggard breath.

If only now we could all play pretend a little more, that the corner of the house shielded you from enemies and your barrel roll to shoot bullets and skinny trees from your pointed fingers was all done in slow motion, that I could somehow magically become a 6 foot black man who's sweat dripping only made the free throws more intense. That Marble cake on a birthday could satiate you, there is no machine to dispense a mothers hug.

until all boredom is appeased, it may just be the goal of humanity.

accepting harsh realities, like staring myself down in the mirror, salt shaker in my hand, lip pulled down canker sore exposed. The flesh looks eaten away and neglected, a symptom of who knows what, but it means somethings not right, and to make it better the grains of sodium dissolve into numbness that won't last more then a minute or two. But look to the water mark of your memories and it is not high just yet. It is far short of pondering meaning at the stiff knuckled skin of a young familiar corpse, below the cordless phone you gave yourself that black eye with, festering about the denial you got asking someone out. it's barley a trickle to the family gathered around telling you how much they care, extrapolating on a situation you can't begin understand how you got there, a distant caring sister being passed around electricity in order to listen to the audible love and frustration being spouted. It's not the crying on the phone to your mother as she tries to make the palate your explaining into a optimistic vision.

al-hambra means the red citadel I want to say sometimes, that it's the apex of muslim power, the last stronghold, a palace inscribed with the supposed words of God. But you wouldn't care your here to eat drink and be merry, to hassle your waiter about the automatic gratuity because your party is over 8. Your here to place your fur coats aside with your LV bag in the corner of a room named for a holy religious place. I wonder how it would do if there were plaques on the wall telling it's origin, christians would mentally hate the food and it's morrish spices.