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We walk out the black back door
With the broken glass window
At the warrant of a smoke
I let you lead me into the dark outside
Through the yard of twisting,
Tall sculptures made of tires,
Bottles, barbed wire, and foam

You grab my hand and fit me
Beside you in the circle consisting
Only of artists, some of whom
Stand, some of whom sit on old
Couch cushions, or lawn chairs
Which have been decaying
Underneath the wet, ***** snow

We, the huddled mass of jean
Jackets, knitted scarves, and nihilism,
Pass around a legal joint and cigarettes
Whose smoke rises into the fog
Of a mid-November midnight
As we freeze, and add laughter
To the hum of cars whizzing past
On the one-way side of 2nd Street

You and I find our place among
The artists, on a chair not once
Built with the intention of sustaining
The weight of two, but you ask
If I’ll sit on your lap anyway
And more than willingly, I oblige

We are now a part of this crowd—
The Burning Man drop-outs,
Too cool for our own selves
We shiver and vibrate in time
To the neon, changing streetlights
And not-too-far-off police sirens
And it is here, in your lap, surrounded
By the rubble of an artist’s junkyard
I look up and mouth /I love you/
And you mouth it silently back

-E (c) 2018
Jenny Gordon Oct 2016
...and I'll give you half an ear.  
[L9:  Robert.  And sent a pic when returned.  And yes, I loved him, shame to say.]

(sonnet #MMMMMCMXCI)

Where gloaming filters out in greyish thence
And fading halflight, children's voices trail
Some barking canine as no birds detail
Calm whispers whose soft breath tugs at me hence
Likeas to stay my footfalls with that sense
Tis now, and here.  Ne stars yet in blue's veil
Except the evening star alone oer pale
Dead houses, and how sunset burns low.  Whence?
Indeed.  He's gone to Burning Man as twere
Or some take off that, romance forfeit too,
Else I'll wish for a date with each in poor
Excuse, how's that?  The problem is...that you
Are not here.  What are cool winds' murmurs?  You're
Who gives dusk romance.  Tell me that you knew.

Hi.  Mebbe I'll share my diary pages again when I feel reckless.  Like how some date proceeded or whathaveyou.  Don't hold your breath waiting.
He left her with two of his favorite sweaters
one t shirt ,a pair of jeans and new Adidas
Yet he had no intention on returning.
In the first week of waiting
she would fold the clothes in a corner
smiling foolishly to herself
thinking of how he would have
something to wear when he returns.
In the second week of waiting
her smile started to fade
Shed sit in the corner of her bed
with one of his favorite sweaters on and wait.
She found a little reason to smile again,
for the clothes still carried his scent.
she would crawl in her the corner of her bed
and draw the hoodie strings and
suffocate herself in soaked sweater sleeves
till she drifted off to sleep.
In the third week of waiting
she washed his clothes
for the scent was overwhelmingly repugnant.
now they belonged to no one
She laid the clothes out on the floor
placed a cigarette in her lips and lit a match
threw the flame to the floor
and watched the burning man
quinn ja May 2014
Midnight on my mind, midnight on my mind. I followed my foot as it slipped into the dust leaving a haunted pirate ship that was going way too fast for casual conversation. The wind was relentless and yelled in my ears as I wondered why I don't own any wigs, and also, why would anyone own any wigs? I feel for my pulse and find it happily nestled behind barely there skin and a few shaky bones. My hunger never asked to be acknowledged, it just whimpered and begged behind my heels like a stray dog I've never met before. The dawn was coming, the ghosts scattered down the cat walk like spiders with flies on their mind. Spiders covered their eyes as a bruised purple sky made love to an orange blossom.

— The End —