Vulture

my insides whisper you've lived a long time,
existing,
dancing and crying and crying and crying.
hating the harlem renaissance,
then liking it again.
pretending to understand Plato,
ignoring the hollow men.
me and you though we know the truth.

2 years of this journal,
18 years of life.
LIV-ING
hasn't started.
my wheels,
they're not rusty.
not broken in.
they're new.
andsmelllikeabmwenginetrappedinachevysskin.

I've fuckedandloved and mostly fucked.
somewhere along the road i forgot about that dirty word,
that closes you up while prying open your skin.
then picked it up at road 36,
and let it go again.

four states,
a couple of dirtbags
with dirt devil vaccines.
always wrong,
but just as dirty.
humming
and strumming [thematically, hazardously, lovingly, hungrily]
wanting.
flaunting.
catching.
cummmmmming.
i think this time i'm on my way.

i love how the beginning tastes as it rests on my tongue.
like sweet tea and meatloaf.
homely.