Return trip from the borderlands
and Maria, she's driving though
she's had a little too much based
on the tremors and the listless
drift of the party bus from left lane
to right.
I'm in my Chuck Taylor's,
the Warhols, the $795 collector's,
thumbing through my girlfriend's
Facebook timeline. She just bought
a Picasso, a self-portrait. I want
to stab her with the long end
of my ****-me shoes. They're
on the carpeted floor. Jenny's
on the carpeted floor too. I roll
her on her side so she doesn't
choke on her own *****. Hero.
The path lights overhead start
blinking and somebody, Kate
or Kristen, I get them mixed up,
starts screaming, "Strobe." We're
in the left lane going ninety, ninety-five.
The right lane looks weak.
Jenny mumbles something as I step over her.
"What's that?" I ask.
"Read the quiet book. Love the quiet book.
the whole human experience captured
in twenty-six scattered symbols."
Someone's in the ****** laughing.
We go into a tunnel and everything
goes quiet and thoughtful and black.
Breathe in through the nose and out
the same way. Click the heels together
and wait.

Atop her night ‘fore one more broken altar,

The oddity in #309, a special sort of
Pale beholden raccoon ******’d lids,
Was showering mascara’d mayhem
And naked come two windows down.
Shivered and if only by candlelight –
Just her, from cold to ever’d numb,
Her dog, (a lab and, “Sam,” I think),
Endeavor and smoldering wick
Amidst burnt flesh, timid
Added scent wrought a
Stainless steel’s earlier promise.

Alone, and the winds carried
Whimpers, tearless atop
A mixture – sweat, fear, relief,
And, “you’d once loved me.” She
Looks up, under starless and towards
Two wandering eyes, my own.
So much so, that even my
Beer-tainted tongue could taste,
“It,” – ***, cash, and solemn lies;
She knew, I’d taste, I’d waste, come
Her sojourn aimed desperate and pallet.

But I refuse, when she called,
She begged and she gently lullabied,
“Ravage,” as the nails trace spiders,
Seeping, “junk,” and down her leg,
“Come be with me.” Please?
But – the, “Wiser?” I closed my eyes.
The, “Weaker,” took my last swig,
And alone, shuttered my window;
So having dodged her bullet,
I remove my clothes, my ***** socks,
And imagined one wrist’s warmth

Atop her night ‘fore one more broken altar.

John Keats
John Keats
John
Please put your scarf on.