A Watched Pot Boils

i.

when salt spills into the wound
i do not throw it over my shoulder
anymore

at seventeen i smoked a joint by myself
for the first time

when you're that high
and when you're that alone
thoughts will drift into places
they never dared to go before

through their own fences
around their own walls

a Pink Floyd cassette was
the soundtrack to the death of god

ii.

when a man wants something so bad
he can taste it
but they never told him that
it doesn't taste like vodka

at thirty-two i wound up in rooms full of necromancers
summoning the corpse of a spirit
with misplaced remorse

teams of half-assed Frankensteins
piecing together some monster of reason

no one had to believe "IT'S ALIVE!"
you just had to say it

iii.

when a moment alone is more graceful
than god ever was

at thirty-seven i stand over the mac&cheese
like it is the grave of my own desperation
dig a bit of salt from the wound
and sprinkle it into the water

no man has his own way of living
but you can get close

when you lock the door
and kick everyone out of your head
you can get close

when you have what the haunted never have
you can get close

when the only things you worship
are the walls around you
and the breaths you take

when you have a moment alone
you can get close
and that
is close enough