Cranberry cocktail plus vodka makes a mess soon after noon,
and the sky like this, stale and blue before an autumn storm,

it’s magic, you could wager. You mix alcohol with a downpour
and dreariness departs. I swear under my breath,

and onto an air that’s crisp with ozone. These pieces put together
prettily in some lovely picture from my mind. Oh, ha? That was too
cute. Just don’t think to cage her

you dolt. Play nice. Stay distant. This time it could be different.


can’t you tell?

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.

foggy mems

burned the coffee thinking of words
to use when writing about you.
(what word rhymes with commission?)

I’m still kinda missing that one night
where we, where uh, well, we watched
that movie at the friend’s apartment who

had the dog that was scared of me (“she
just doesn’t like GUYS”). we posted
up in summer night seriousness and

even though we were stoned you would
flash some steel sober looks at me, and I
left awed, staggered: who’s this chick?

you know, the coffee dripped out okay,
but I still don’t know what details to
add and what to give an omission.


She had had Letham’s Disappointment
t on her shelf, another edition
than mine, hardback. You can guess

where it goes from here.


I talk about you more often down here.
Here, because you are not the typical
taboo topic to be picked around and
through. Here, the memories were fond
and friends all liked you, it wasn’t
feigning, I promise.


We never got a dog together, or
an apartment, or even a good long
road trip. And I miss the winks.
Take it back, I know now, here.

May 3, 2012

On the edge of his rearranged
room he stands, glancing out
onto rain soaked streets. Six

months have passed and if
he said it wasn’t easier he
would be lying. Still,

some days it stays difficult
through a late morning and
on in till the late day, then
eventually, the night. Some

days memories stick longer
than they should; as in, they
outstay their welcome. Not

everyday, mind you, but some days.


Her feet do what all feet do
on wet ground: they patter
as you run, and splash

unwanted water up past
your ankle. No worries.
That’s what the boots are for.

Like most days she is in
a hurry. Conversation is
for the evening, and even
then she’s choosy.

a certain nose, an inflection
reminds her… “Hahah. No, no
no.” Another time, a different