God spends the entire night locked in the bathroom stall. Engraving all their clichés into the door with an army knife. And you, sat next to them, repeating: I don’t believe you, I don’t believe you. There’s an argument to be made for worship, but that’s not what I came here to tell you. Some days you have to push in with everything empty. Let the bartender know you’ve been cheated. How you meant to say something much more eloquent. How Angus is outside, smoking your cigarette, rolling down his symbols. The banality of youth taunting: watch me! Pushing a hit from her molars. Silver tongues rushed over a gam, asking: Are you down about the economy, darling? Are you feeling tragic? Look, I just wish you wouldn’t grind your teeth like that, not during a recession. It’s enough as it is that everyone’s front-lining some band. Some postmodern collective. And worse, and worse, you keep trying to climb over my back and sing me your song. It’s the third time tonight. Still, I would like to make everything about us. Bad mouth every flower; roses, lilies, the whole garden. Only Lucky is ringing out a crane’s neck in the red room, and I’m getting all sentimental about it. Waiting for the valves to go off in Tijuana. Knowing you’d like to believe them. You only get five minutes to teach yourself how to be gentle.

‍