in the 3 am dim
I did not have the strength to listen again.
this is the con with eating your crow
alone. it’s lonesome.
better off to have the friends over, turn on
a screen or two, break out the bags
of drugs, crack open the cold ones.
make things loud, for godssakes.
otherwise, yes, the listening
to creaky Cole Porter records
spin an old memory of doing it,
falling in to an old experiment,
de-lovely, anything goes for a bit…
is a pretty type of painful. ‘I would
prefer not to,’ thank you very much,
I say to myself, scrivenerly.
It’s a burnt orange sky– like,
signaling-hell-orange with a purple threat.
My windows are tinted with sleet.
Those lit portals from the projects
seem like watch-posts,
or something. A hard thing is,
wondering whether or not to
still be sad.
The music sounds tinny and bleak,
but it is maybe one of your favorite groups.
If you do not eye-roll at the occasional bad
accent I don’t want to hear about it. This will
depress me. There should always be someone
coaxing from you a happy reaction; your true
laugh makes friends and family brighter. Test it.
“all Brazilian coffee tastes the same”
he said with a wry grin, and she looked
like she wanted to punch him,
lips slightly parted, brow furrowed,
a slight twitch under her left eye.
“oh?” she managed to let slip from a forced
“was it something I said?”
oh. oh, no one knows these days how to date
or how to schedule a meet up for coffee.
they aren’t even a couple; they’re just two
people in line in front of me,
but gawd, look at them flirt. she turns away,
orders a cold brew, eager to leave the man’s
space. he checks out her ass.
I feel like crying and it’s not even 1:00 pm
on a saturday. nothing has touched my
tongue since some water that morning.
you know a bone can be sharpened once it
has left the body? I want to make a pick
and pry my eyes out, stab my ears deep.
my mouth will just keep on moving like always.
A girl that goes back for seconds
on coffee is haunting my me.
She sits in the back
of my room, and comes out
when the light is on, or off
sometimes. She doesn’t seem
picky. You could call me that,
‘picky.’ She knows and giggles
little ghost giggles. They’re simply
terrifying: like little broken wind
chimes only inside, and the air
bubble tea in your belly, we roll together
on warm sheets, not washed in a while.
days like these, you find fun where you can
in times like these. laughter–‘please,’ she
said, so you do, or rather, I do. I did. we could
run away just me and you, go to New Zealand
or Canada: let’s do it, let’s become a Cole Porter song,
a Joni Mitchell jam. I haven’t had a case of you yet,
but a few bottles is enough to fuck me up. I’ll always be in the bar
and you should know that about me. at words pathetic
I’m so poetic, it’s grating, I’m sure.
tapioca is good in tea
but that’s about it, we both agree.
take it easy flatfoot jack,
and stop blaming it on the bossa nova. the old school
was bad and we all know it, and they knew it too.
the climate today is women and those
who don’t believe them. monsters among men,
or maybe the latter is just made of the former.
‘god only knows,’ Brian Wilson spills out, but
god, I can’t muster a smile today. anyway,
her boot would look good on a throat,
as she burns the house down, chewing on
a cigar, sipping from a nalgene filled with tears.
light it with that torch she always carries. flames need fanning these days, it seems.
fireflies mate at dusk, but they seem thirsty now, an hour from midnight.
lightning bolts about in the clouds above, there is no thunder. my fever has
if everything happens for a reason, how do you explain the Texas storm,
maybe a mile up in the air, flitting about, sending fat drops, well, just everywhere?
the weather, I label inclement. turn around, don’t drown.
that’s what I’m great at.
hit. pause. is that cancerous?
he would like to believe she isn’t a liar
and she’d like not to be.
objects to objects to the subject at hand.
have I got a hand for you. great job.
we all applaud. look. it’s not we don’t approve;
it’s not we don’t approve, son.
just don’t grow up to be like those blanks.
mark this. words are powerful. they were created
arbitrarily (I guess), but they’re still so powerful.
think. no one created a black hole, and look
how awesome they are. pure power,
if I fully understand what ‘to pull’ means.