desert bound

you thought you wanted to be a boxer
once,
a scrappy fighter from down to undercut,
in the jaw,
under the eye,
but what about the overbite,
the hammer down                                                                                                                                                  down
down 

onto that pretty face? 

so you dissolve into the asphalt;
you float like driftwood,
fighting gloveless,
fistless,
bitter beauty buried in cannabis dreams,
watered with carrot juice
and tequila. 
you won’t swallow the worm, though; 

that would infer a certain level of commitment 

that leaves you in a singular state of indigestion.  

instead, you squint into the glare of the sun’s eye, 

Eastwood-esque, 

unsure if you’re good, bad, 

or indifferent

until, slowly, you turn away from that 

sting of reality, 

apathetic to the burn, 

roll another joint, 

and fade into the soft green of your mind’s eye, 

a coastal grassland littered with 

alligators and lost tourists.

the humid air boils within you

and silently evaporates 

from the surface of your bare skin,

one more thing to leave you.