little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

Put out a cigarette.
Lite a new one.
Take a shower.
Drink some coffee.
Quick brush of the teeth.

This is how John Carpenter starts his day.

Start the truck.
Lite a cigarette.
Drive.
Drive.
Lite a new cigarette.
Drive.

This is how John Carpenter goes to work.

Check in with the boss.
Sit down at typewriter.
Lite a cigarette.
Think.
Type.
Type.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.
Type.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.
Type.
Type.
Think.
Stretch.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.

This is how John Carpenter spend the first hour at work.

Repeat seven times.

Check out with boss.
Start the truck.
Lite a cigarette.
Drive.
Drive.
Lite another cigarette.
Drive.

This is how John Carpenter drives home.

Take off his coat.
Lite a cigarette.
Feed the dog.
Cook a steak.
Drink a beer.
Eat the steak.
Drink another beer.
Lite a cigarette.
Watch the ballgame.
Lite another cigarette.
Lite four or five more throughout the game.
Quick brush of the teeth.
Lite a cigarette.
Read.
Read.
Read.
Lite another.
Read.
Read.
Drink some brandy.
Fall asleep.

This is how John Carpenter spends his evening.

Repeat all of this 7,304 times.

This is how John Carpenter spends his life.

And when he has smoked enough cigarettes for a lifetime
and read enough for a life time
and eaten enough steak
and drank enough brandy and beer
and written enough novels
for a lifetime
he will die.
And only Mary Stein will miss him.

an octagon tent
wide enough that chucking rollies
to the sand made impossible
sprawled layers
you turned to quote Dali
told me how pale blue washed with lucy
shimmered skyline into dimension
acryllic-smeared sass drips canvas
into murmurs circling dilation
dimethyltryptamine stains
painting dreams on my eyelids
with flowerbrushes and silk,
mushroom dust gathers in discarded hues
on your pallet, where the colors of your irises
dry into a nebula of night-blooming jasmine
the scent of how you move when you sleep
and sleeping is never so sweet
as dancing through lucidity
with you as my sheets.
and i've traced your thumbprint so often
i'm sure if it were stretched around a marble
like buffalo skin on spirit-caller drums,
a globe would be seen
in which Greenland is finally proportionate--
the map on my wall always bothers you,
but I do too, and everyone does,
urging me under the geography
etched into the sea of your surface
by the crucible of your purpose
and working me into
empty behind your right
below the 22
between i'ching
and the forty two names of god
clasping your fore in silver
copper wound around my finger
hamstrings woven like wire
kambaba jasper, two to share
you hang Tibetan tektites
to elevate space
meteorite fragments
lodged in your helix,
stardust blood,
mandala sand from your mother,
and our tendons wrappe
by dexterous carpals
make such a pretty pendant
of my heart,
for synesthesia mistakes not
and my addiction to the pen has eased
for you breathe murals
and syllables never could
match brushtrokes of carbon dioxide.

To sit so happily slouched
around a burning skeleton
of PBR party packs
and revel in the cremation
of our troubles
To properly inter them
wreathed in white sage
and murmur melodies
until they seep into the dirt
To nourish.

I guess the reason I text you drunk at 3 in the morning is because I have so many things to say to you and I don't have the courage to say them without the aid of 151 Proof Everclear grain alcohol.

And the boy I was sharing the ***** with didn't mind me talking about you.
The Boy with the Sunshine face didn't mind hearing all about that one time you and I danced.
He didn't mind hearing about the one time you kissed me
and he didn't mind me texting you.

In the morning I laughed it off unlike my hangover.
Just like the day before,
the first thing I reached for was my pipe
and after that it was my phone.
And at 11:30 in the morning I read the text you had sent at 9 the same morning.

I guess all I really want is you.
And that's dumb to say
because I want a job
and a ranch
and maybe a dime bag.
But out of all these things I want to hold you most.
And I want to kiss your face
and touch your waists.

As much fun as I had receiving this hickey
it would be nice to have one from you.

To the Girl who Gave Me This Hickey:
Thank you,
it was fun.

Stained tea kettle howled
almost as loud as we did
one cool November night
leaving us trapped between
boredom and curiosity.
Stale bread and ripped jeans
turning us into something more
then five strangers with too much time
and too little money in our hands.
It didn't matter how many scars covered our wrists
because for a moment they didn't exist
through our bloodshot eyes.
Clarity and time became dim
as lights faded along with my mind
because soon I would find
my hands inside yours without a word
and slowly things seemed to fall apart
as months of wary burdened our hearts
because we couldn't quite forget the night
we turned from strangers to lovers
the questions never answered seemed to linger
that led us to crumble
as quickly as the brownie between my fingers.