they all call her alaska

you're full of bullshit & gas station liquor, but it's all bukowski to her,
when you liken her face to obscure pop culture references,
hair a tangle of drug metaphors &
bones eloquent,
delicate.
you slur your words and imagine them escaping, glossy
from the corners of her smirk,
with the shine of a las vegas skyline at 2am.
but her heart, you suspect,
is sallow, jaundiced,
a disappearing act akin to a houdini trick or that
goddamned cheshire cat,
only a cruel, amused grin.
you could be wrong.

you're comparasions to tragedies are elementary at best
her eyes roll towards the desert sky but the rocks in her pockets & shoes
won't be touching water anytime soon.

it's all kerouac to her, anyway.

& in your hallucinations,
her eyes are dice and you always roll
snake eyes,
green and pleased
& the maneki neko tattooed over the curves of her back
seems forboding &
a liar.

fear & loathing, it's all hunter s. thompson to her anyway.

you're always twisted between her legs & her laughter is sticky, red,
hard candy, and
(this is just an exercise in imagery &
you're just an arsonist's fit,
trying to break the fucking ice)

but at least now you know why they all call her
alaska.

(it's all lou reed to her anyways)

(they first thing i have finished in years. don't know if i like it or not, but hell, it's something.)