"have you ever actually touched the stars you reach for?"

aaron has begun to talk to himself.

"no, you haven't. because if you did you'd be dead."

today he is eighteen,
but has grown bald before he's grown old.
what's left on his head looks placed there and
likely to be blown away by a slight breeze.
he steps out of the shower.
his wide eyes focus on his right hand
and the wad of dead hair inside of it.
his face tweaks turbulently to a state of horror,
an expression that stumbles wearily along a tightrope between
anguish and perplexity.


it was the same hair that drunk girls had
hopelessly swooned over in late-night bars;
that had launched him into local rock stardom.
now it dwindles sparingly over his shoulders
silk-like on either side of the part in the middle.

aaron turns, suddenly, gazes intensely into the bathroom mirror.
the perplexity in his face widens and vastly becomes utter disdain.
if eyes were a weapon, aaron would be dead.

"you're an actor. a goddamn actor."

he had come to hate what had once been an intimate passion:
music. particularly that which he created.
he had come to realize that when he was on stage,
performing at any nameless venue,
that that's all he was doing.
he was performing.

aaron's eyes, precise and determined, aim sharply toward the razor
that rests on the sink.
he reaches for it, timidly at first, and then with exceeding confidence
as he lifts it to his head and begins to shave.
he watches the dead or dying hairs cascade lazily to his feet
before they rest finally on the floor.

Last edited by Arthur Curry at May 20, 2008,
The second to last stanza was a bit iffy on wording, I thought. Quite awkward.

I'm not sure if I like the detachedness of the narrator in some parts. Further reads I'll see.

I enjoyed this, on the whole. Has a nice quality about it.
I'll come back to this.
turn me back into the pet that i was when we met,
i was happier then with no mind-set.