Grass. We Are Grass
Four Fifty-Two A.M. Our eyes are wide, mouths dry Of caffeine and women in spandex Gyrating in sweat and false advertisement Reveille by the Early Bird Taps for the Late Worm Five Oh-Four A.M. I’m still in bed, eyes dry You make more coffee. Two cubes, no clouds I turn on MTV, no, VH1, no, Gyrating men Try to fall asleep But the TV’s too loud Five Ten A.M. There’s coffee in my hair And a Hellfire burn on my nose I’m awake. Wet. Sticky. Gently vindictive. A broken coffee mug on the floor I didn’t think it would break Let’s take a drive down a country road To somewhere with a sunrise view Abandoned gas stations Tall grass weighed down with dew You’ll do your best to ignore this pirate heart I’ll have my head in the wind Watching the faded white line dance A waltz with the tires An eternal dance we could all admire
Six Fifty-Seven A.M. You push out your first words “You treat me just like everyone else” I’m not sure what to say, so my reply is weak I look at you, eyebrows pursed “Do you even love me?”
Seven Thirteen A.M. From Highway to Gravel road A shotty bar with boarded windows Withered tiles. A hornet’s nests you poke with a stick In a park I used to know It always made me sick You pull me to a tree Fallen branches broke the swing Wormy apples that taste like wood We ring around to the softer, shady side You point out an inscription “A+M 4 EVER”