Drooping hazel eyes
affixed to the back of a
can of Lucky Energy,
I am regaled with tale of
Mr. Lucky, who survived a
plane crash that killed 136.
My hazel eyes bounce off the
aluminum, reflecting
suspicion.
“Would’ve been luckier not to crash.”
My eyes have always been this way,
cynical and unpleasant, bloodshot
through time, decades older than my
hands or hairline.
Objectively they’d need an abacus to
count my blessings, but objectivity
is a methodology
of self-preservation.
My eyes thirst for self-destruction.
Less so “Rizzberry & Cream.”
My eyes thirst for soil,
or my own tail,
like a snake in need of Prozac,
my own blood,
like a vampire so
long in the tooth he can
bite his own neck.
But the rest of me is reeling them in.
My hair craves gentle fingers,
my fingers covet velvet mouth,
my mouth yearns to blow rizzberrys upon pillowy stomachs,
my stomach and heart are full.
Fuck my eyes, those
Coke bottle dependents.
We’re cutting out misery soda.
We’re drinking Lucky Energy.