Atzlan
the mind is nothing but a prison,
this cliché collection of phrases,
the barbed wires clawing at his loud shirt,
the reminder of red. running away,
the pitiful view of the back of his head,
an immaculate target for this bullet,
crosses on the side, a snake weaving
in and out, a perfect circle.
the thump of this persistent song,
like a stubborn old man's heart,
nagging at his existence while
he wishes for the golden rays of
freedom. the silver chariot,
the recollection of youth,
this prison of a body, holding him down,
suffocating, egging him on.
the blind rage of intoxication,
crying as he swings the bottle,
jumps out of the window,
crashes fifty feet below, nothing
but a puddle of scarlet.
no anniversaries,
no tears,
no separation.
the bottles of Absolute, Coronas, Hypnotic,
becoming a city. tall obstructions,
shadows of people without a purpose,
that purple stain on the floor,
the obnoxious pink of rose petals on the bed.
she's now sitting enclosed by his gaze,
as treachery unfolds, so do the palm of his
hand, as he reaches across the years of history,
invalidated in that moment. the click of the
camera, the drunken stare, that infamous Asian glow.
leaning in for that final picture, the image flashes.
looking down from the window, he's there,
face buried in cement, limbs scattered in the red and grey.
screaming furiously into the blue hue,
squinting down at the mess.
the facade of musical equipment,
slowly picked up,
leaning against
the microwave while tippy toeing
to witness the sailing of records
making a smooth landing on its owner.
the explosion of technical sound.
the death of dreams.
and the band plays on,
the dangling silver and gold paper
sparkling with indifference.
the night goes on,
the empty bottles of lies towering
as he pours shots of apathy and denial.
tasting the salty sting of tears,
he recoils to realize that she is holding a book.
"Zeppelin", it says.
the lighter is simple. black.
as it burns the last vestige of his memories,
her piercing gaze reminds him of a blue striped canopy,
it makes no difference.
he runs free in her mind, drawing his favorite things,
playing with dancing lights, flirting with pretty little faces.
she wants her life back.
this cliché collection of phrases,
the barbed wires clawing at his loud shirt,
the reminder of red. running away,
the pitiful view of the back of his head,
an immaculate target for this bullet,
crosses on the side, a snake weaving
in and out, a perfect circle.
the thump of this persistent song,
like a stubborn old man's heart,
nagging at his existence while
he wishes for the golden rays of
freedom. the silver chariot,
the recollection of youth,
this prison of a body, holding him down,
suffocating, egging him on.
the blind rage of intoxication,
crying as he swings the bottle,
jumps out of the window,
crashes fifty feet below, nothing
but a puddle of scarlet.
no anniversaries,
no tears,
no separation.
the bottles of Absolute, Coronas, Hypnotic,
becoming a city. tall obstructions,
shadows of people without a purpose,
that purple stain on the floor,
the obnoxious pink of rose petals on the bed.
she's now sitting enclosed by his gaze,
as treachery unfolds, so do the palm of his
hand, as he reaches across the years of history,
invalidated in that moment. the click of the
camera, the drunken stare, that infamous Asian glow.
leaning in for that final picture, the image flashes.
looking down from the window, he's there,
face buried in cement, limbs scattered in the red and grey.
screaming furiously into the blue hue,
squinting down at the mess.
the facade of musical equipment,
slowly picked up,
leaning against
the microwave while tippy toeing
to witness the sailing of records
making a smooth landing on its owner.
the explosion of technical sound.
the death of dreams.
and the band plays on,
the dangling silver and gold paper
sparkling with indifference.
the night goes on,
the empty bottles of lies towering
as he pours shots of apathy and denial.
tasting the salty sting of tears,
he recoils to realize that she is holding a book.
"Zeppelin", it says.
the lighter is simple. black.
as it burns the last vestige of his memories,
her piercing gaze reminds him of a blue striped canopy,
it makes no difference.
he runs free in her mind, drawing his favorite things,
playing with dancing lights, flirting with pretty little faces.
she wants her life back.