Green eyes

 

Another day, another

icy wave

splashing,

rocking back and forth

inside the amber

of a sweaty bottle

which I clutch anxiously 

while her green eyes—

those emerald containers—

undress my sanity, 

thinking,

I need something that

I already have.

But the pilot crackers make me thirsty 

enough

to lick lunacy 

just as the French do,

and grant

green eyes

fair play.

Cactus Music

 

This world would be totally and completely and utterly unbearable

without music. 

That's why

people 

like you—

the gorgeous prickly little souls 

that hurt

when you squeeze 

too tight

are, to me, the most special. 

The musicians and 

the artists 

and misfits

who put good use

to the color in their eye

when it glows

with a little old thing

called passíon. 

You save the ordinary from itself;

the dull and depleted,

dark and decrepit;

misery. 

Death doesn't stand a fucking chance 

when your voice plucks

on these twisted, fraying 

heart strings.