Comenod

It's like May in Dallas
at a drive-in adolescence
where all the Coors tastes as
cold and great as an opium nod
I never knew about yet.

We necked in the cemetery
and were as harmless as
a High School tooth fairy
innocence was as bored with itself
as any yearbook protocol
You were with me even then.

You were always better than sex
only I didn't know it then.
You were as elusive as a morning's dream
and even before you could appreciate vanity
you were vain.

You swore in the best fashion
and were about as hip as you could stand
not too affected by anything, you see
chic, detached.
Instinctively you knew this
besides you never caught Zen giving a shit.

You knew that if they could write on your headstone:
He was not fazed
It would represent a certain
sustained aplomb
You wanted that then, too.

You stashed your vulnerability
like some refugee built into your
thorax
in clever hidden panels.
Any contortion or discomfort can be
maintained on the myth of its own
nobility.
But any principality can be discolored in the
tradition of its lies. Same is true of this territory.
Intoxicating as the comenod.
Your tongue was soft as a pastel even then.
My muses were as numerous as my
girlfriends
and profound as drive-in features.
We spent May evenings like Monopoly money
and I always felt like Boardwalk with two hotels.