The first sip is joy
caffeinated, herbal brewed
steaming happiness.

The second, gladness
hope, wide-eyed, penetrating
deep into your skull.

The third. serenity
light blue injected into
your veins. Numb and peace.

The fourth sip, madness
the kind that electro-shock
can't cure. You are crazed.

The fifth, ecstasy.
A green-tea ****** that
lingers on your tongue.

Toward the end
you started handing
memories away.
Books, photo albums,
your favorite
ring.

In my back pocket
I carry
the last picture
you gave
me.

A metal framed
snapshot of
your beauty.
A moment
of youth.

Dark red lipstick
and hopeful
eyes, smooth
skin and
nostalgic
suit.

I imagine you
in New York City,
a small town girl
stepping into
a photo
booth.

A time period captured
in a flash. Now,
seventy years
have passed.

Your eyes have seen
more cities, more
faces, more
fantastical beauty
than a Polaroid
can hold.

In a metal frame,
in my back pocket,
I carry your life.
I carry your ghost.

There is nothing
quite as sad as
a man who dies
a social death.

His heart still
moves blood through
his veins.

His yellow teeth still
tear through
the days.

He wastes oxygen
and drinks the air
in rooms where he is
unwanted.

He crashes parties
uninvited.
And dresses up so
unimportant.

He sits and waits
for a response
that will never
arrive.

He watches the hours
and years slip
slowly by
and calls it
life.

I feel great
and the universe knows it.
A shock wave has
spread from my feet.

Now all the ghosts
are walking
toward me.

Long lost enemies and
sworn lovers are
swarming me.

Armies of old friends
are rebuilding
the bridges
I burnt.

Absent fathers and
distant relatives
are trying to
look underneath
my skirt.

My repressed memories
surface with
every touch.

The aftermath
is just
too much.

Our post-war love
will never last.

I let go of you
after the blast.

I move too fast
I know, I know.
You only get a passing
glimpse of my
shadow self
as I fly by.

My pearly whites,
a strobe light
too quick, too
temporary
to be truly
seen.

You couldn't tell me
the hue of my eyes.
You've only known them
in dark rooms
closed, while I blink
or sleep.

But my dear
this room
is getting darker
and I'm backing away
from the light
and you.

The longer you bathe
in darkness,
the more the darkness
becomes
you.

My collection of High-kus*

Dangerously late.
Nothing on TV I like
Watch reruns of Friends.


Walk into the room
there's something I really need
Forgot what it was.


Blazed in class again.
My teacher called on me, oh
****. I should have read.


Look like you're homeless
Complain about being broke
Spend paycheck on ****.


Open up the fridge
A beer, some ketchup, and cheese
Doesn't make a meal.


Super high at work.
Boss making eye contact. Thank
Jesus for eye drops.

This is the story of
the boys who loved you. The ones who
stole you and the ones who
disowned you.
Their paths diverge
like spider webs winding
away from you,
left in the center
alone, waiting for
your next meal.

This is the story of
your absent father.
The one who taught you
not to bother.
To love the ghosts and the
masked superheros.
To follow monsters
into the dark gap
under your bed.

This is the story of your
patchwork skin
sewn together by your
reckless abandon.
Each seem pulled tight to keep
the outside world
from coming in.
Skin that reminds you
of the mistakes that
cannot be forgotten.

This is the story of
the boys who loved you.
Some were kind and some
stole pieces of you.
Took your bones
and picked apart your brain.
Each walked away
with their favorite tooth
from your smile.