And the steam is gone,
Clean now — everything.
But the tub.
Dirt days and dirt of the day
Ring around the tub,
Stays, a conjunction,
And, but, Baby is gone with the water.

We notice the dirt, the after bath aftermath,
Or I notice the dirt, because it is just me,
And the steam is gone.
Draining is slow:
A clog of pocket watches;
Lovers’ tresses;
First communion necklaces;
And flecks of sparrows’ wings.

The sparrows know better,
Bathing in the sand, brake dust,
The gutter grit.
The irons,
Dirt-day rings around my ankles, a conjunction.
Too fettered to flap like the sparrow,
To shake-shiver filthy clean.

after anti-lamentation by dorianne laux

Regret nothing. Not the true-crime shows that kept you up in morbid curiosity,
Anticipation and cynicism you couldn’t help but chase like Pandora’s box,
A price you paid with the death of childhood ignorance.
Not the hours you spent trying to delude yourself into forgetting,
Trying to bring the fantasy worlds in your fictions to life as a distraction,
Only for them to be tainted by the blood of your supposed savior,
Not the nights you woke up in the purgatory of consciousness held down by restraints,
Inescapable regardless of how much you tried to urge your muscle nerves to just move;
You broke the rules - your mind your prison,
something you could sense but would never truly understand.
You were born to live an unfulfilled life,
Half of you chasing comfort in the warmth of the radiating body in the sky,
Only for the other to seek its death - to watch a being of vast power, provider of light,
devolve into infinite darkness - emptiness warping space and time, void of destruction.
You’ve been here before, sat in front of fate dealing her cards,
Only for her to reveal the fool, just like she had the last time, and the time before that.
Regret none of it, not one of the countless sleepless nights you’ve endured,
Not one of the days you walked through the world with your vision spinning,
Permanently blinded by the haze that stood between you and affirmation.
You’ve been blessed with a beautiful gift, so relax.
Don’t bother thinking about escaping the fog,
The way that it consumes your mind with unanswerable questions,
An uncontrollable desire to chase against your rationale.
I mean, you asked for it, didn’t you?

Driving down the freeway
underneath the dark night sky.

Thinking about it all.
Tears falling from my eye.

Starring out the window
at the reflection in the mirror.

Remembering the times
when it all seemed so much
clearer.

Canada is afire and I’m confused, shouldn’t the snow put that out?

The Boston sky is an interesting shade of mustard yellow,
and there’s a pale orange haze where the sun should be.

Lisa, drowsily asleep-walked into the kitchen for her morning coffee.
“So this is Mars,” I observed, “Elon Musk will be so jealous.”
“Good,” Lisa said, “I was afraid it was nuclear winter.”
“There’ll be no breathing today.” I updogged.

We could almost hear the slow, delicate pitter-patter fall of micro-ash.

“There’s aaaa bright golden haze over Boston..” Lisa began to sing softly.
Lisa knows every Broadway score and can easily interpolate a song into every conversation.

Here, the wind whips
The desert sand
Into a furious haze
That blinds all in
It's vicinity

Here, my neighbor is
Dragged out and ******
And my other neighbor
Is drugged out, ******
Different burden, different labor

I pray,
On my knees
Toward the east.
I pray for change
I beg and plead,
Please

we spent our summers in a daze made up of sugarcane and promises lost in the wind
the heat soared above us, free and untamed
we didn’t ***** our fingers on the thorns
we swung till the sun pierced our skin
sunburnt and snakelike peeling specimens
we danced in the ashes, a feasible effort
baked in our button-ups,
American flag wielders, Jesus lovers
half deceased in a pile of audacity
dresses on girls with the actual embodiment of the word
we were outright outliers on the brink of independence
we were broken, but we felt like stained glass
a beautiful portrait of veneration
they showed our faces to the president and he sighed with relief
some days we laughed until we got sore
under water fountains and jet blue skies that made us forget our melancholy
and sometimes we swore we would never speak again
the sun was burning holes in our soles
we breathed in the smoke, it felt holy in my lungs
we regretted to regret if we would ever lose this charm
but i guess we all figure out, you have to pretend until you’re gone
we were still indigo sparks in the Fourth of July sky at midnight
we saw the statue as it beamed for opportunity
and we smiled back in common courtesy
i even showed my teeth
in the summer we were folk songs
word of mouth enchantresses
flying high above the canopy
we remember when the piano started to weep
the sweat on our brows used to slide down our cheeks
for sore eyes they would’ve looked like teardrops
though time has passed
through a narrow mindset
i still remember how the roads got wet on a Saturday morning
and the sprinklers quit
because their jobs were fleeing
it’s crazy she’s dead now
summer dreams only fade
we lost the look in our beady eyes
i missed the last train to freedom
hearing my name be called by you was like having my heart ripped out in front of me
but for summer she doesn’t recall such a memory
i would’ve loved to hold your sweaty red hand for the last time knowingly
as the season set and invited the breeze
for now it’s just like a reverie
a hazy afterthought
splitting through the atmosphere like a comet
it wasn’t glory, it was gory
the summer sunset stuck in our frizzy hair
we lost the feeling we chased for so long
behind an alley that smelled of redemption and cinnamon
an island lost in legend
a girl with loose intentions
whose fists fight hyperbolic battles
sweaty recollections of a faint moment in space  
a storm weathers
forgiveness is flowering in my palms
and we used to be so good at that

Curling tendrils of tobacco haze
engulf the tiny space, hang like
ringlets over shots of whiskey
and mugs of warm beer. A solitary
dancer moves, bracelets janglin’
and eyes heavy with kohl, captures
old men in mid drink as her hips
sway to Nina Simone. Her bronze skin
glistens with the hot stares of the
audience; she soaks it in, twirls on
bare feet in perfect time as the
high priestess of soul bewitches
us with heavy grooves. I close
my eyes, tap fingers against glass,
whisper Nina’s words into the smoke
and breathe them back in again.
This is jazz, I think out loud,
this is pure unadulterated heat.

Long have I known fog,
his name, a penumbral thought.
Just like all the rest...

Red eyes
Dried lips
White icy fingertips
Cracked smiles
Hazy gazes
Blood stained phrases
White noise brings
Soft whispers
Playing games