Pornstars have the worst tattoos.

Twenty-four was a decent year for me, despite the time
caught masturbating by a man too drunk to notice
my pants around my ankles. At least I think he didn't know
any better, he kept talking to me like nothing was wrong...
and traccidents? Pshaw!
I've learned to look for the Adam's Apple.
I've managed to refrain from writing about roadkill.
I've still got a thing for Miss Ana Phora.

Yesterday I even put pants on, ventured out
for my daily dose of sunlight
and the unemployment check.
The bank teller counted the Twenties
so smoothly with that rapid shuffle
from right hand to left, the comforting
sound of skilled labor behind a counter
helping skilled labor sitting on a bench.
It was enough to leave the grenadine out
and take it like a real man, one who walks away.

Five weeks ago while showering
I popped a blood vessel between my eyebrows
while thinking about the many uses of Molotov cocktails.
Ironically, his God books are in my old bedroom now.

And I wish I could ease my mother's sorrow
but the older I get the more I understand
that we're past that point in each other's lives
and have problems of our own.
My scraped knees are mine alone now;
her bed is hers to sleep in, with him.
Thank God she's got her weed
and I've got my weekly pack to cope.

I heard somewhere that chemicals in
cigarette smoke relay a message
to the DNA in lungs, telling them
that they should grow another set.
Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Whatever comes my way these days I try to remember
that it can't be worse than the time my meth lab exploded.
It's a shame, really. Guillermo was a good man...