There is a great bit of the people who scratch their eyes out in their early 20’s and pour margaritas down into their throats; bypassing their stubborn shut mouths.
Who depress iron halos on each other’s forehead, glorifying the silent brains against the wall that mix so well with the whisky and all the unpublished pieces they tacked up in hopes that someone would see them.
Who numb themselves with one night stands, one hit joints, and the bigger bottles of yeast-waste they find anchored to their silvered tongues.
Who find themselves whirled into dysfunctional relationships with type-A girls who don’t know how to relax, don’t know how to talk about their problems in person, how to take the laughs, only knowing to wait for them to round that corner before they send the text, before they tell them they’re not comfortable with them anymore.
Who share works in those small eccentric, intrinsic, bubbles of faux-intellectualism, each hogging the spotlight, chained back against their neck, ripping forward to speak, to outshine, to give their own superior opinion in some Hiroshima-blast of black-rimmed philosophy.
Who romanticize blue collar, demonize black collar, dream of white collar.
Who want to believe, but can’t, try to pray, yet somehow can’t find a greater meaning to their demons in the dealer’s house, communion wafers among tabs of psychedelics, or the dead children tasting how bitter god’s blood is inside a shot glass.
Who wear leather jackets when they have no bike, Hawaiian shirts when they haven’t left the state, sunglasses when their eyes are a good strong blue.
Who bastardize themselves for friday, boiling down their elements into a love for kittens and booze, finding only those who boil themselves down, flinging themselves at them, falling, organically rising then to the occasion of a real person.
Who birth their new selves from collegiate granite, shaking as bloody stones fall from their skin, and they smile for the first time, find joy for the first time, lose their decency in the night, again, for the first time.
Who wait four years to take themselves down from their own crucifix, because they don’t feel like it, and are still disappointed because they didn’t last longer than the fellow who was hung from the gallows down the street.
Who find me in their ranks, as much as I am finding myself, relishing my hell as a wild gin-brained animal warming myself under piles of the acquitted, damned, and noodled who fell on their swords at the old jaundiced feet of poets who care less for them than they even cared for themselves.