the pink men make me feel safe, like the attractive man smoking cigarettes before a thirty-minute time to reflect, the past washing over me while I bond with my father.
the planet earth is blue, and the only thing we can do is sing pretty little love songs and pretend we can turn salt into American currency because the rich are only hungry in their hearts.
and the rest will find solace, or a moment of monetary weakness in blues or a tempo alterations—those guys know what words to put with what the birds wake us up with, and our eyes water at the the thought of “belonging.”
death suits the craving, the depth that no one dares to go because that is what they’ll find.
so we just look for it in fiction, black and white mirages, men encapsulated in hardware, and idiocy such as alien invasions,
knowing deep down inside that these stories hold more truth than your nods and grins to strangers
I crawled downstairs, and gave in to the last in a trilogy that has turned some to God and others into idols, not restricted to those that break their arms to reach the starlight above the light pollution, but the hunger is in all of us—we all want to win the war that happened once and far away,
when really it happens only in pixels, our memories, and never all at once