Black Leather

I was going to write about leather
that black, second skin of mine
the one that bleeds
the one that has that lusty scent
like sandalwood and gasoline
like Billy, you know?
No, not Joel the wuss
Idol
Like James Dean
Like Joey Ramone
and how we idealize rock Gods
and girlfriends and songs
and love and poems and motel rooms
and how cupid is mischievous sometimes
how this second skin camouflages the ethereal mind
the superfluous flesh
that yearns for thorns instead of roses.