tables of men

my balls hang low,
like the clouds that scarf the radio tower,
I wander through the streets,
with urine soaked pants,
I remember your black curls,
brown eyes,
it became empty,
like all things are empty,
a fig tree bearing no fruit,
your reckless beauty,
beads like rain,
from black clouds,
I get lost in the whiskey,
then, the waves of my mind,
as I sit amongst tables of men,
who talk and dream about the ocean of love,
but live in the desert of suburbia.

the sheltered point fingers,
and say people drink to cover up,
they drink to run away,
but no,
they drink because they understand,
because they see what is coming,
and they know their limits.









"In the morning, as Jesus was returning to the city, he became hungry. Seeing a fig tree by the roadside, he went up to it but found nothing on it except leaves. He said to it, "May fruit never come from you again!" And immediately the fig tree dried up."

(Matthew 21:18-19)