I was sitting outside,
smoking a cigarette
with three of my favorite pals,
and I looked at each one of them,
and I told them,
"I love how,
right now,
we're happy.
And how,
when I look in each of your eyes,
I can see the smile that isn't even on your face,"
and then we smiled,
and I went back inside.

I laid on the cold hard floor,
feeling the chops of air
as they spun from the ceiling,
escaping the mass of my body;
finding refuge in my arch,
my natural resistance
to flatness.

And I was watching,
stalking myself from a distance,
but all that was seen
was my cardiovascular essence,
pulsing on the ash-ridden floor,

until I cascaded,
washing;
falling below to My Earth's
very core.

I was watching and laying,
and falling,
but when all had occurred, I remembered:
My Self is not merely a body,
a skeleton breathing out words,
but a soul and a spirit and presence,
and that is what ought be preserved.

Our bones were sticks,
and we grabbed 'em all together;
threw 'em in a pile,
and lit 'em all on fire.

I thought we'd
keep 'em burning,
but your shadow kept blowing out the
blues and reds and yellows.

I was
wrong.  

I thought you'd stick around
I thought you might try to have some fun,
but you left the check for next month's rent
in the mailbox;
not even on the kitchen counter.  

I was
wrong,

And now I got a tongue,
real slick,
and whiskey to chase back daggers;

red stingers, stretched and fresh,
holding in between my copious veins.

When I hear,
When I am listening,
if the sounds are sweet 
and strong,
like the great winter Huntress,

then my soul seeps into Hades,
and the Lost begin
to congregate. 

And I,

I become the
thick, 
wet 
void
of endless stars

in the deep,
dark,
water sky.

You took the dinner knife
that we ate with,
and you spit-shined it
with obscenities.

You stabbed my "freeloading"
back.  

And I let it fester a wound,
before I pulled it out with my
bottom-feeder
claws;
the same claws that
shed splinters in the
woodwork of our
hardships.

My bleeding knuckles,
bare-*****, and filthy,
without the pennies
to wash them off,
couldn't heal fast enough
to stitch your
paper apologies to your
glass expressions.  

Then, the house that "you built",
the house in Hypocrite Pit,
burned slowly,
like the lamp light
that flickered after dinner.

The ice cubes
floating in the Mellow Yellow ocean,
inside my styrofoam cup,
feel like millions of frozen bees,
stinging my hands
with jolts of cold electricity.

I saw with my own eyes
the perfect portrayal
of beautiful indifference.

I saw it in the blue-green shades;
the swirling ocean waves;
bright stars in a dark, cool galaxy.

You held yourself,
back straight,
teeth white,
hair brushed,
and skin tan.

And I was bemused
with your wonderful perception.
Half your words whispered,
"Listen, I'm beautiful,"
but the other yelled softly
your impeccable intelligence.  

A true wonder;
a confusing marvel;
your blue-green eyes,
your sparkling smile,
and your wrathful blade,
sheathed behind a perfect portrayal
of beautiful indifference.