Pints

Wake up
and I realize
the beard has got to go.
Who am I trying to fool?
Stand in front of the mirror,
scissors; check
face; check
cut #1
and we have lift off.
It drops into the sink.
Cut #2
this feels much better than i expected.
Faster.
GOD YES
Cut, cut cut cut cut ferociously
more furiously and get this fucking squirrel off my jaw.
There's no time,
we've got to tear the bastard out.
Ripping and yanking
clumps of it at a time
for the shock factor,
we'll really wow them now.
Jump on the motorcycle
and we're out of this town, this town of
ghosts, this dead skin bag of town.
And under the moon going this fast feels like
the kind of freedom you wouldn't hope for
but dream of and forget in the morning.
It's like having your balls cut off with a swiss army knife,
free from the terror of bringing children into
this kind of world,
free from the years of sexual inadequacy,
free from getting kicked by teenage boys who think it's hilarious
free from the weight of carrying on a name.
But this is cursory,
like the moon or the wind,
there, but not.
Like me, really.
There, but not.
And as the blood drips down from
my patchy chin
onto the seat of the bike
I can only realize how soon
it all disappears.
They say I have a fire inside that burns
but I don't ever feel that hot
deep down.
Perhaps I'm broken.
Perhaps I'm doused.
There is a bucket of quarters I keep for such occasions.
I use them to buy everything I could ever want.