Hot tart. Bitter candy. Jeans torn in the ass with spandex underneath.

Here, both the pines and the people spend their time pointing upward,

like Plato in The School of Athens by Raphael.

I hammered the rock of this place, desperate to make it bleed.

Aristotle tries to ground his sky-minded mentor.

He motions at the men around them, muscular,

intent in various states of dramatic repose.

Muddled and kink-brained, I searched the night

for my own breath. I performed CPR on myself

with a dozen other bodies. Nada.

That one guy in particular, sprawled on the stairs,

frowning at a scroll, clothes falling off of him, alone--

I'm that guy, okay?

I thought I strode through the darkness

opposing the oppression of women.

I could do anything a boy could do:

drink, fuck, drive fast, shoplift. Whatever. I could do it.

I'm not one of those gathered around a book, discussing.

Not yet. I'm not the guy writing something

on his propped-up knee with another looking on.

I howled into the night, yearning for something to howl back.

I stole a 12-pack of cheap booze. How do you do that?

You pick it up, walk toward the counter, then RUN!

Some of the men are gathered around what looks like a mirror

on the floor, gesticulating at it. I laid in my bed and looked

into the mirror above the dresser.

I am beautiful, I told myself, I'll take whatever I want.

Aristotle's hand stretches flat before him.

He's saying that the Good is the mean between the extremes.

He's saying, Come back to earth, man..

I loved that dirty murder of crows I caroused with.

But I'd never say so, even to myself.

That would mean I was weak.