It's funny:
Until now I couldn't imagine dependency on substances.
I didn't know how to imagine addiction.
Couldn't imagine a Routine in Smoke

But for the first time I got just to the edge--
went only a bit beyond.
And then I forgot.
I forgot to worry
my head like a puff of cottonwood
I didn't even have a backburner on
Simmering the responsibility
the inability
the fragility
of my self.

When I woke up it was back.
I had worry rushing to fill my head because it had
to make up for Lost Time.
and i wish i never had to stop Losing Time.

I studied his face during practice
The Law had no effect on his features
He was not without blemish, not without impurities.
I never liked him.
His eyes too high, nose to bulbous for the rest of his face.
His hair stood straight up. Like bristles.
He was ugly. I knew it.

Through the trial I sketched.
I fancy myself an Artist--
I drew a nose.
I saw his bulbous nose.
I said, "Oh god."

I can taste the wood and paint
of the pencil i've been biting
I let it roll from my teeth down my shirt.
And I can't focus on the Words in my head because
the Song is playing but I can't focus on the Song because
the Rain is hitting
the roof. And my window.

Everything fades to a Place where
all outlines are blurred.
No harsh edges
Only the ideas of words

i carried a bottle to the door. Left the book that was mine now in his car. He'd
keep me safe, he was my dd. I am too afraid of cars manned by inhibited drivers.
He'd keep me safe.
In the house. More people showed up.
people opened that bottle i had.
My first shot was out of a measuring cup.
My second straight from the bottle.
The third I spilled some on my chest and called myself an *******.
Fourth from the bottle. Elliot said he was proud of me. The tequila in me impressed him.
They said I should stop.
I took a fifth.
He was playing chess on the black leather couch so I joined him.
I couldn't focus on the chess pieces.
I curled into him
my legs over his my arms curled in.
I could focus on his fingers tracing doodles on the soft skin on the back of my arm
The lazy pattern burning into my psyche. Staining it red like blackberries on a white sundress.

I felt safe with him.
I hadn't felt taken care of in too long.
I feel safe with him.

And even though i was drunk and even though he's still getting over her
I can feel something with him, like there's a future somewhere in there.

If I hadn't had to leave, if he wasn't safe and sober with me,
things would have gone differently.

Instead of being hounded for trying I'd be scorned for doing.
I know that full well

The show ends. the set's torn down. I've figured it out, i'll say, "strike went late."
He drove me there. We'd planned on him following, but I liked the excuse to drive with him.
He was sad that night. through the dark he told me that he's lost two of the three things
He takes pride in. Songs, Gaming, ***.
he doesn't like his poetry nor prose, but he likes his songs.
He lost friends being unable to compete internationally.
He knows having so much pride in being good at *** isn't healthy. That's when my mind
wandered to his recent ex-girlfriend.
But he said hesitantly that he'd love to read my words my poems
and i forgot.

I read in three different places that night.
on the chair. on the bench. on the floor up the stairs.
Chair: I felt him watch the words under my hands.
I hoped he was watching my face.
Bench: all the same except our knees were touching and
when it got too loud to focus, he pulled me up the stairs.
Blocked from the doors' green room behind,
we slid to the ground.
Stairs: Closer than before, or maybe I was imagining things.
Keats' Ode     on a Grecian Urn and on Melancholy and to Autumn on
my lips as I try to piece together what's happening right then, in life and on page.
too many poems about lovers for my head to think straight.