Sunglass and Ash

The wind is cold,
and it takes a bite
out of the world.
Only I can see
in black and white.

It’s a wasteland paradise
where gin shines like apple juice,
James Dean tickles the ivories
stuck inside a smoke screen filled
with sunglass and ash–
smile until it hurts.

Where cowboys were shadows
dressed like dashing gentlemen,
where ladies were damsels in distress
and rebels with a cause.
Where cigarettes were an extension
of the body, a blowhole.
Blow.
Broadway screamed my name
but I wasn’t listening, I had cotton in my ears
to stop the sound of police sirens.
I didn’t do it.

Where martinis were liquid medicine,
a lethal dose that was the answer
to every lost question,
a pill you crushed up and dissolved
into your blood so you couldn’t feel
anything but a rush of change
pass through your nervous system.
Something so strong
not even a doctor would know
what to fill your glass with.
But that’s okay because there’s no cure,
there doesn’t need to be.