SOME

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Some shaved their heads,
some shaved their tongues,
shaved syllables,
saved turntables.
Their hopelessimistic promise
calls us best.
Hairs like clouds keep on graying.
And still no one knows
what they're saying.

Some tasted God
in the minty rot of their teeth,
the textured stain
in a quilted paper leaf.
Some considered suicide
with all their makeup applied.
Some counted sins among gins
and tonics of the root of evil.

Some taunt each other
with the radio.
But only zombies hear.
Existence is a movie.
They have their thumbs
on every scene.

Coffee sinks their sugared words.
Hairs like drugs keep disappearing.
Eyeliners improve their vision:
the frames are black and
short sights reflect deep as a
philosopher's coffee black ocean.

Some became men.

-Luke Rounda