here they come gnawing
impervious to threats and kicks to the throat
under stale skies
but even they’re dried up
what a mess.
less than zero is?
who fucking knows or cares
smells like maple syrup and shawarma on this side of town
kind of like it.
miss home though.
amaranth by the pound
or was it teff?
wonder if you’re taking care of the skyline like I asked
got things of your own I’m sure
saw a picture of some trees you took from below
wasn’t that great of a shot but
maybe you were happy when you took it?
not me though
the power of my own thighs can cheer me tonight
maybe if I pedal hard enough
I will take flight
option two (just as good)
my tire will clip a rock and I’ll be thrown from the planet
into the night/onto cement
where all the blood trapped for 20 odd years
will rush to the wound
and I’ll be left quiet and waiting for someone to notice me
in death as in life
and the local authorities will find my phone with this poem on it
and my grocery list
(cashews, eggs, “good” cheese)
and texts I should have taken care
to delete oh well
turn my stomach and send me
into the garden gasping
covered in dirt
we’ll never stay together
“It’s going to be alright”
Is what you would say around one in the morning when we were two beers in. You’d smile and we’d be quiet and these were the nights you’d be good. These were the nights you’d relax and set down your sadness for a while. I would take it and go out to the yard to throw it as far as I was able so we could talk about books and musicians and how you ruined your clothes at the laundromat. Slivers of skies and German chamomile hung all around us and I didn’t love you. The wine was gone and so was the twilight and you didn’t love me either. But it was all ok then. Only months later when I realized you never came to my birthday and you never said goodbye did it start to break me. What happened to you? Did the drugs finally get you? What happened to me? Did the cold finally get me? You never would have moved to the coast with me. You never would have taken me anywhere not even to the plains states where they write poetry and take Xanax and binge on their own self pity. To think I wanted to see it for myself! To think I wanted to take a picture with you for that newspaper story about the not-quite-dead. My tongue rebelled at the taste of yours. I always preferred candy to cigarettes but you never understood so instead we drank our herbal liquors till we passed out.
And then it was Thursday again.