The glasses that I wear are fake.

Speculative drag, sure, 
From the moment I put them I assume at least a bit of you for once will think I’m going somewhere 

with something. 

Well, 
I’m not, 

Because these glasses that I’m wearing are fake.

And yes, I hate them.

But,
They compliment the brows nicely and when I’m hungover,
the lips of the lens hide the bags my Thursday evenings always bring, and

sure,  

They were expensive. And I think that’s kind of cool.

Besides,

I’m growing older, 
eyes are going colder and 
sometimes the light that mirrors off of them is the only kind I’ve got.

When I take them off, I’m just – 

a balding pretty boy, ‘boy’ used loosely,
‘pretty’ I’ll hold onto for now, I’m a

Cuban muscle crisis, crisis being they’ve begun to weaken. Just the ass is peaking, and the cock, 

You know, 

When I’ve drank enough water. 

I keep them on and I’m salvaged from age.

I keep them on and I’m free,
no,

clean 

of disease. And I keep them on hoping you’ll listen to me when I say

What it’s like to have it 

When my glasses are in my pocket.

But for now,
they’re on and I hate them, okay?  

It’s the confinement of periphery, 

the, 

Admittance, 

Of going extra for the ordinary,
masking all the extraordinary,
and settling for the fractured light off of them, 
instead of the one inside,
and relinquishing being anything more, 

For fear of being what we’d be
for fear of what we’re told,
what’s been said
what we’ve had to hear before constructing our veneers.

they’re shelters of our wounds, 

shutters on the windows, exteriors to our interiors, erected so that finally

We can rest in peace each night knowing no one knows we’re having trouble sleeping.

With them built, with these glasses on,  

We can smile through our screams.
We can wear kaftans to Ralph’s, in Ojai,
distressed Marlboro tees to Republique
and chicken nuggies at the SoHo House heaven high above 

unwashed seas,
burning man and burning up you’ve taken on the crystal fad, I see,
VIP LA Phil presents that conductor guy who did the Star Wars thing so pack your lightsaber bought from Disneyland,
and when people ask about that painting of yourself you bought for you just find the thrill in knowing someone wants to know 

the more of you. 

They wanna know
all
about
you. 

That thing that’s you,

That thing 

you do that thing 

your wallet got.

That thing about you. Just

combing over the bald spot.

Unlike all the times before. 

When we’ve always kept them glasses off.

Before we knew we could even buy them.

Unlike all the times before, 

When we were ravaged for being bare. 

Unlike all the times before, 

When we weren’t all

perfectly happy. 

Perfectly cured. Perfectly clean.

Perfectly, 

perfectly…