90s teenage graveyard

And So It Goes or Is Already Gone “Maybe it’s a statement on the corruption of first rate government officials,” I say with a tone somewhere between irritation and a bored kind of bliss.  My companion in the booth, a swarthy looking youth with a hooded sweatshirt that zipped up in the front didn’t seem to grasp the idea I was trying to get at, and was tired of pretending like he did. He looked at me with a confusion that communicated the feeling a cow must have before its master strikes a fatal blow to the cranium.             “Let’s go get high,” he musters, falling into the huge category of people in Albuquerque, New Mexico, who have nothing better to discuss than the nuances of joint rolling.             “Where?” I asked the kid, coming to the sad conclusion that either out of boredom, self-pity, or the simple fact that I live here, I have - neither suddenly nor violently - been thrust into the same category.             “I dunno – Abe’s,” he said decidedly, unconvincingly, and also very, very slowly.

This is some deep shit right here.

I'm obsessed with writing poetry about sidewalks. I also enjoy hanging out in graveyards and taking black-and-white photographs. The picture in the middle is of me and my friend Stacy, hanging out in a graveyard, as usual.