From the diary of little boy cries

bald
rock-room,
breathing  sand
drenched in
the indifference
to wildfires

there are only two Basque people in Oakland
we’re strangers and spend too much time eating ourselves

our eyes are heavy under our own fantasies
of how to describe green

you don’t need nothing to listen to

music

my grandfather’s favorite red wine
has stained our skin

and

dimly lit restaurants haunt
our little boy dreams

you can fuck all you want

there’s no wine coming from you

little boys in wait of dead parents

you are not strong enough to cry

I love memories only because
they smell like gasoline

little boys
with
gasoline headaches

Header photograph © Asher.