another shot since 10th grade.
I've read his short stories, enjoying
is machismo and bravado,
but then again I was 25 then,
lost in Strand with a ten dollar bill
burning a hole in my skinny jeans.
a hammer-shaped map sits on baby blue,
and I play records, considering everything,
from cold 3AMs to sharp pencils and short ropes,
and the worse part of a good day
is remembering if.
the drop ceiling seems
like a hat to this building,
tipping it to the sky,
as if we were in half a ballet
of looking back at bad decisions,
where good was mixed up with byes.
maybe I will go outside
and go back in time.
trust me, I've tried.
but it's probably all about the size
of regrets on backroads,
behind schools that have seen
so many so-called kids turn into pseudo-adults.
ain't that just the craziest shit?