head to toe in leather

head to toe in leather,
hide tanned from corrosive salts,
waiting in line to wash it all off.
but the rain's coming baby,
roll those smokes up in your sleeve
safe and snug.
i'm living the free life,
i'm living in the matrix,
huffing e-fumes. then she resumes her speech politely
ignoring my constant interruptions:

"you're so cryptic,
and people don't want to think
to decipher the content.
they want to drink on Sunday"

i blink and it's Groundhog's day.
i blink and it's Christmas.
i blink and i'm reminded that
Autumn dies as fast as Spring.

my hide is weighing me down,
so i shed it.
my helm is chalky and brittle;
one tap and it crumbles.
my sniper's scope works mid-range at best,
and everything sounds good when it's not now.

turtles live forever at home,
those intrepid agoraphobes,
tracing their world out of a magazine.

so i took it all off, and blasted whatever is closest
to fill in and drown out the sound of airplanes
and trains
and people mumbling to themselves into a telephone.

i mention it often, but my tongue is loose
and sharpened and nowhere near my cheek:
i'd love for it to snow, to increase the albedo,
just a smidge or two until our marble reflects
what ugly ignorant assholes we are.

i watch her polite expression, knowing that
i am going the same place forever with my thoughts.
the matte surface of boredom and nostalgia presses me
to cross the street, despite my desire to
sun-bathe in the intersection.