Heavy Halos

With hands made of riddles. Tepid dramas debate us. In the filthy rhetoric we wear as faces. In the musty burlap we call skin. Culling the wine from sour grapes. And beds made of words never said. Vampires in the keyboard lapping at sex spilled. Politicians in the text. Making all these masks meaningless.

I remember the first. Frail. Useless muse. Words approaching. Blurred and still in makeup. Staging the pieces in little losses. Framing the surrender in fireworks.

The second. Overconfident. Bitter candies in a beautiful box. The luster of ribbons knotted across the seams of the heart. Shaky letters in cursive still too young. To finish sentences greater than my obsession.

Looking out in shy resolves. A gentle warfare with the self. Like sleep only louder. I'm better. I'm worse. I'm everything I want to be.

And nothing.

The third. Musty curtains begin to part. Revealing a stage where a dialogue is being born. Cigarettes burn to quickly. Clothes fall off. Wrinkled fetuses elope with the world. In hemorrhages of sobriety.

Looking back in thinning gloves. A fingertip to the clock. Every second an upper cut. Every lover a boxing matching. If only I could be young again. I'd know better than to love anyone. If only I could go back. I'd know better than to wear bras so tightly.

The fourth. The epiphany in blurry scores. Some refrain of music I can't recognize. The last. The god in a mortals smile. Fouled by such red teeth.

The instruments of our distaster all around me. And still I can't hear the music I know is there.

The pretty in the addiction. The deity impersonating the man. One drink at a time. In the rquake of small step ladders. That make small men tall.

Everything si not enough. Everything isn't even close to what I want.

The heavy halos of certain angels more than I can lift. The panic of happiness overdosing right there on my doorstep.