A poem. By Alex Gallo-Brown

The grays hung over
and were hard to puncture through.
No unexpected thoughts,
no divinity
to spell the shabbiness
I had become accustomed to.
I took to filling my mouth with cool water, 
became a madman for exercise,
reduced my carbohydrate
intake to a minimum.
Meanwhile, the clouds were constant,
emissaries from my failing life.
I passed trucks that wanted only
to crowd me to the shoulder
or else fling water against the glass.
I stopped at gas stations
to buy corn chips
that mounted temporary arguments
against my ongoing ruin.
I stared out at the grays 
and I stared into them.
I held them inside of me 
wherever I went.
They were as soothing
and suffocating as smoke,
or any other intoxicating beauty.