Break me open and let my dreams pour out onto the pavement.
A thick, oily mass, tinted the color of failure.
Who would know?
The night sky above is the eternal *** of ink
from which the greatest quills go swimming for ideas,
and to it, let my dreams evaporate and return,
for is that not where they all come from?
Is that not where they go only to return to the earth as acid rain
over the heads of those in need of new perspective?
Though, if it's not,
or if my fat and heavy dreams are too saturated with defeat,
then simply leave me in the street,
and leave the sticky pool to ooze down the nearest gutter
to disappear.

We are rain, we are tears;
we're the condensation
on your beer mug.

And we form,
and fall,
and feel forgotten
some times.

From heaven, to earth,
and back again,
we take trillions of tiny journeys—
assemble in sheets,
hover in mists/
trickle, splatter, pelt without mercy/
quietly collect and freeze/
loud as the sea, softer than the whisper
of death—easy to deflect and shatter,
with power to carve canyons.

From shoulders we
vault to elbows,
dance down arms,
scurry between legs,
squish between toes,
hurry down the drain
linger on linoleum
when you pad away
from the shower,
trailing steam down
a sweaty hallway—

to where he lays motionless,
breathing sunny
solstice dust
in a closet-sized room.

“Better”?

“Oh, much.  And thanks for the towel, too”.
 
                                                         ­                II.

Everything about you was flat.

I knew your hair was blonde
but also something else—
not dishwater
or *****
or even unclean—
“flat” was the only word that fit.

Flat as your face,
your chest,
the bottoms of your shoes,
and not a whole lot less scarred.

Flat as your eyes—
such eyes as I’d never seen;
not always awake—
hunting/wanting/sharp
like a scavenger’s
yet full of blind spots,
placed there by the drug
to impede self-perception—
and wantonly green.

I knew only your name.
You hung with Jim, haunting Mother’s—
just two junkies bumming change.
I was amazed you managed to survive.

House rule was
never trust a ******,
but home alone,
in too much pain to care,
I let you take a shower,
borrow my towel.

We compared spinal surgeries;
vinyl siding on childhood homes;
monsters and movies;
fruits we didn’t like;

a nod to new music/
put on your red shoes and dance the blues

then places we’d go
when our ship came in;
the greasiness of the sun outside;
the final indignity of death—
anything but our lives just then.

From summer cotton to suddenly nothing—
no memory of how or why.
You spurned my offer
of a cigarette after
with a gesture so shy

and self-conscious
I felt myself growing
suspicious—then alarmed, confused,
and finally, amused
at my own lack of observation.

You weren’t hiding anything.
You just didn’t want
me to see you
as begging.

life is best measured by the hopes we burn
through those dead yesterdays none could forget
times when the fattest were the most sharp set
which ended we wished would never return
still this is what each of us pays to learn
from that hard teacher whom we name regret
the many ways that life is overset
and those lost gifts for which we will long yearn
so let the drum beat none of us will leave
without a turn upon the judgment seat
so we gain wisdom from the hard result
although our purpose was not to deceive
we're forced unto it by the long defeat
which strips us of all reasons to exult