on the table there is a knife and a small pile of *******
a lighter, a bottle of cough syrup, a shot glass
three empty beer cans
a worn copy of Hemingway's best work.
these are the times we live in.
this is our place,
reflecting our lives--
this is how we live.

we spend a lot of time
outside.

my eyes are rimmed in gold
his hands, strong warm firm           around my throat
surprised me. i felt
golden           liquid          liquid gold
in that instant i wanted
more.

He and I go up to the roof, the narrow stairs and low door. The tiles on the terrace are orange clay and slick with rainwater. He opens a new beer from the six-pack he's been carrying.
"Do you know the story of the Lady In Red." He slams back the cerveza and doesn't give me a chance to answer, but then, it's not a question.
"So you know, in Aladdin. When the genie's offering him everything, anything he could ever want. And those three **** girls appear, in red dresses, tempting him. And in the Matrix, they're walking down the hallway. Neo stops to look at the lady in the red dress and when he turns around there's a gun in his face.
"This city is my Lady In Red.
"She's so beautiful, so passionate, you don't even see. I don't even see it until it's too late.
"This city is killing me", he says. "She's given me everything I thought I wanted, and taken everything I have."
He finishes the can and kicks it across the rooftop. He laughs meanly.
"I'm a ******* alcoholic." He laughs again. Opens another can.
"Twenty-one years old." He shakes his head and coughs harshly, hacking up spit and sending it off the edge of the roof. "I am actually ill because of her."
"She's so perfect, but it's not real at all."
He looks so ******. So lost. I look out around us.
The skyline is so beautiful.

tell me again, darling. she laughs loudly, lipsticked mouth open, white white teeth. how charming! heels off, hair up, stockings brushing against the bare floor. her accented voice, the room takes her in as if she is the painting we have needed, but never had to grace the walls. now she is dancing with her shoes off, her hair coming down, untamed, unashamed. drink in one hand, the sun is rising through the window. the sun is always rising with her.

picture this:
clear glass rectangle table.
i am sitting
on one side, away from you

our feet touch
and i recoil.
you tell me again that you love me and i think
how drunk i was
how you still carried me home
even after all the others
even after i treated you like
less than nothing.

picture this:
in two years,
clear glass rectangle table.
you are on one side, away from me
i am halfway across the city
in a taxicab with your best mate

the phone is in front of you on the table
and you look at it
knowing i will not call until morning
knowing danger is the compass i use
to find you

in two years,
clear glass rectangle table.
bank card, a tightly rolled bill
lines like scratches and a glass filled with poison.

in the present, you tell me
people learn from their mistakes
and one can't keep helping people
but i tell you
the holes that we dig for ourselves
are far too deep.

Barcelona.
My love.
Mi amor.

Carrying butterflies
in the palm of her hand,
the dust from its wings
in her eyes.          In my eyes.

The sun rising over Placa Espana,
the cradle of her alleyways; she
speaks to me as if she is my soul, telling me
of her great journey
through summers
and in and out of long days,
telling me of her youth and beauty.           Telling me she loves me.
That she is always here.

Barcelona, mi amor.
Hold me now
through the night.

sainted, we martyr ourselves to the night, to the
hunger
and hunger
of lost ambition
sacrifice these glittering young bodies
to the smoke and
smoky air
to bright shadows and fogging memories
nail these hands with hope to the edges of castles
we are sinners dying with sinners
we are saints and angels.