Boredom churns broad-in-brain
competing with petty volumes of alcohol
(white Russian, 1, Magic Hat #9, 1)
for dominance of the summer's eve.
Unsure of which would prove the victor,
past-tense, too, filled with unknowing:
thought- and pedaling-process interrupted
by a traitorous bicycle;
a forward-bent-fork;
a fleeing, unbolted forwardwheel.
Fast-pitch forward,
eyes-wide but dead:
quickfall into void.
Then, wide-eyed horror:
awake again
filled with the horrible pain of life again
fueled, amplified tenfold
through the impact of the sidewalk.

Hair explainable, perhaps only attainable,
via jagged electric lines from the sky
yet eyes follow, shimmer greengoldenbrown
with none of storm's lined chaos, no,
but maybe focused-inflicted madness
as
they
settle straight-on, brightened above wide-eyed
smile
-something new, there,
shattered-glass that's mended fast
upturned hopes but sails at half-mast.

She came as does morning
radiant and becoming in introduction
illuminating
flaws, goals, underlying structure
By high noon there was clarity
visions possible only at deep night
stirred into being by her apex.
Dusk, though long of shadow,
held comfort of embrace
of held hands
solidarity of mutual purpose
red-ringed
by veiled anger.

As the night came
she was gone.

Up and over walls and weeds,
ever-towards the tower did we climb
wrapped about with anxiety and anger,
isolated ahead of the herd
alone, we lead,
a mob edging closer
to storm-filled skies.

A bed of rocks, debris of cans,
sky-touch achieved:
we'd been first
to reach the roof.
Lightning storm to the east,
fog to the fore
and soon, somewhere nearby,
a stereo, playing the music of my youth
framing the sound of people laughing,
people drinking
men climbing too high
but mercifully, never falling.

A green gasmask, a black bandanna,
two flashlights and two bodies, pale of skin:
we again set out apart from the mob,
lost ourselves in computer crypts,
lamp graveyards,
uniform-chair depositories,
a ghost-floor filled with superstition and cauldrons.

Varieties of folder,
both manila and hanging,
bound across your back -
you got what you came for.

So did I.

Quick little pinprick
barely breaking the skin
small welter of blood
filling in fingerprints.

Once a past shared
fleeting moments among years
erased in lieu of bigger smiles,
more pleasant portraits.

Just a quick little *****
reminding me, despite a
decade of turning away
that once, I faced the flash too.

Tapping the vein
at the section of upper and lower arm
striking the needle deep,
jagged and rough,
upon notice that Second
isn't a one-way street anymore.
Must have changed while I was gone.

My Malibu,
swerving viciously to avoid the old Grand-Am
finds its way into the right lane
the only lane
fitting like a glove on the wrong hand.

Ahead, 475 dictates my exit.
A detour, the sign says,
with little ostentation,
even more accuracy.
The highway vomits me away,
chewed and confused,
an exit before my usual.

Though the path ahead
veers straight as a needle,
it's two miles downwind.
Two miles behind.
Great symbolism,
I tell myself,
pressing ******* the accelerator.

Furious orange wounds
rimmed in charcoal
betray last night's secret:
died, almost died,
charred in an accidental inferno
due to the lazy application
of a long-standing addiction.

Warm,
paper-burn stink clings
to the heat of an early morning
- July.
The slowly-creeping wet heat
in stark contrast
to the quickflash realization of predawn:
my bed was on fire.

The must never know,
those in the cells opposite -
surely, threats of neglectful destruction
warrant the hasty eviction
of the new tenant.

Thus I,
the wakeful sentinel of 611 Lyon
watching for mattress fire
have overturned the hopefully-cooled burns
and will sleep
to avoid dwelling on thoughts
of bonfires.