quiet time
the ride there is always
better than the ride home
you can keep your heroes
because i have faith that
the kings and queens
of saturday night
will prevail
with hopes held high
happenstance will never
form a habit of mind
and in those hours
between ill spun dances
and cold showers
the sunrise will
wash away the stains
of disappointment
that were left to wither
in a hollow cacophony
of strained voices
loud and littered
with excitement

home again
with sex on the brain
draining the bottle
too quickly
and staring at the
salt and pepper shakers
grenades that resem]ble dreams
it’s a start like so many
but never a finish
because in the end
no matter the words
i am cut to the bone
as she watches from afar
with the silent symphony
waiting
at least i can
rest well
in the fire