longing turns to flatlands
to trees I used to climb in youth
to closing the blinds in the afternoon
and falling asleep to slowdive at 4pm
waking to little hungry mouths on my fingertips
so I shove them in my pockets
bound and gagged
to look at your old house
down on cathedral street
where I’ll stand until it starts to rain
and then some
is the season for dripping fruit from open eyes.
stale sweat mixed with the fresh stuff
in a cyclone of ripe summer
makes me think of
slicing up your calves and eating them
for the iron.
tripping with multicolored birds
cannot for my life remember what we did with our bikes.
boiler room streaming
to keep the party going but
no one wants to do poppers right now.
“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.