social .collab

he says stereos spit
because it's their job-
steel prisons to the songs
girls love, boys lust from
or pound hammers to
cinder blocks like
they're swinging
with their lungs.

at night-
drinking with their
arms enslaved to
muscle memory.

so he pulls his shoes on.

starts taking steps
towards a hangover
sounds like a
storm rising, he says
sounds like three am
and no morning
sounds like the skeleton
in my flesh is growing
more skeptical
of life.

he eats a porch light
with his eyes becoming
smaller in the moonlight
bending to follow
his words to the mirror
and bowing
       to the sink
              when he gets there.