i am sitting on the exit doorstep
of my roof
smoking a cigarette
talking to you
feeling you
can you hear me, lover?
speaking to you through this night
staring at the mauve clouds
heavy with
the reflection of grey city lights.
this night is cold and glossy
twinkling
serene
and i'm remembering
all those other nights
speaking to you from a distance in the dark
the nights
since the beginning of my life
now
you're a stranger no longer
i know those green eyes
and that tenderness running
its fingers on my thigh
the warm voice of home
the still silence
standing with you
on the back porch
smoking cigarettes
watching the rain
the snow
and soon the sun will
shine strongly again
the cats will come
out from hiding
they'll wander, strut in the
back alley and parking lots
and we'll be there together
standing still

you live
in the mess of my print, in
the meaning
of words that come
before your name

the blue of
pen ink and bruised
skin

you are the liver’s thirst
and the beer bottles
thrown
against stagnancy
you contort my dreams,
working through
sleepless nights

the deep blue of ashes
bruised
skin
my pen ink

you
coming in all forms
except  that of
mercy

You came in out of the night
And there were flowers in your hand,
Now you will come out of a confusion of people,
Out of a turmoil of speech about you.

I who have seen you amid the primal things
Was angry when they spoke your name
IN ordinary places.
I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind,
And that the world should dry as a dead leaf,
Or as a dandelion see-pod and be swept away,
So that I might find you again,
Alone.

it arrived on the doorstep this morning

the clothes I kept at his place
spilling out of his old
gym bag,
reeking of
tobacco ash.
my body and mind have been
sorting through it
as a team
separating
colors, darks, whites
while my heart runs
past me
back to those
apartment nights.

and I taste the cigarettes
on the floor of the balcony with our
legs dangling in the air,
in the kitchen frying pasta,
in the bedroom
ashes sprinkled on
velour, on skin,
in the beer,
in the ashtrays that
made this laundry so
*****.

i taste the cigarettes,
and indulge
their flavor
until I remember the
other girl and
know for certain
he must have shared
cigarettes with her too

my ***** laundry
as a helpless witness
on the floor.

4 pm looks bad on this saturday's
frame
it's hot and humid
and the cicadas cry
sounds of roasting pain
and i'm on the
cold white tiles
lying on the bathroom floor
mess of hair
glasses upturned.

this is another one
this is another one
and i can't anymore
it feels like i've
been doing this since i was born
the salt swells
the skin of my cheeks
i know now this demon
is nowhere near
slain
and i can't anymore
but i will
cause this demon ain't dying
but i'm still trying
heading for a place
like a heavenly home
and i'll take it
there, drag it
if i have to

i'm taking my beast to
a place
beautiful and strong
and once i'm there
he can suffer
he can enter
the dagger to his chest
for all i care
'cause i'm heading there

old friday nights
resurfacing
as i emerge out of the glass globe
of work.
old friday nights
coming back
to me
impractically
like i'm trying to
grab
a handful of velvet
from the dark sky
(and i remember
the
excitement
of those nights
drilling
outwards
from my heart to extremities,
the end of
my week shift
suspended
like a good cliff-hanger.)

my memories are mischievous
ghouls
throwing punches
at me
that never miss

no,
it is i who miss
those old friday nights.