Air murky with the stale smell
of ****, we sit
on the couch, both mute.
I drape my arms across my belly,
pinching my Victorino jersey
nervously,
convincing myself
I'm having fun.

He lounges with the remote
in one hand,
our dying joint in the other.
There is something on TV.
I don't know what, I just

force myself to laugh intermittently,
while he sits back, looking
relaxed, even bored.
(I convince myself
I'm having fun.)
An abrupt commercial break, and suddenly,
an ad.
For what?
I squint. Flashes of
water, boats, and
what might be heroics,
but time has slowed, and I
can only focus

for a few seconds of lucidity,
the sheer volume of information
overwhelming.
(I convince myself
I'm having fun.)
A narrator's voice, and I understand
the ad is for the navy.
What I should have learned is that
it's a "bright career path"
for the "intelligent, determined, hard-working"
individual.
Cute.

He brings rolled paper to his lips
and pulls.
A sideways glance and
a restrained voice–
"I could have done that,"
the muffled words rush out,
as he waits to exhale.

I think that I could starve
in a ****** apartment,
just the roaches
and me,
and be happy,
if I only had more
to say.

The time will
present itself
when I should want to keep my head.
When my stomach should be calm
instead of gently churning.
When my tongue
should bend and twist and tut
at my command, instead
of swelling uselessly.
When my feet should follow
one before the other
in a seemingly well-rehearsed
line instead of lazily
trudging helter-skelter.
The time will
present itself
when more problems than
solutions fill this wine glass
to the brim, and my mind
will wail for lucidity.

But that sensual time
is not tonight.

waking up in the hospital
with an IV in one arm,
and the reappearance of
a sad long island
iced tea
dripping down the other,
with an eight hundred dollar
bill to pay
from a hundred dollar a week
pay check–
and you realize
you are not
where you thought
you'd be.

The teapot whines.
It has done its job, water now
struggling to escape,
a few lucky molecules joining air-born brethren–
and now it begs for the release
of its agitated contents.

And I am thirsty.

The fire dies.
With a turn of my wrist, the burner
is granted repose,
the contented sigh of the *** speaking for the pair–
happy to be of use
but eager to relax.

And I am ready.

The teabag waits.
Its tail hanging free, it slouches
lazily against ceramic,
the bag of herbs finding home in a mug–
ready for the heat
and its life's fulfillment.

And I am pouring.

The water steeps.
As steam swirls the mug, herbs
release their subtlety,
earth and fruit and the lethargy of chamomile–
a bath of comfort,
the smell of memory.

And I am calmed.

Murmurs of French
must have blanketed the great–
cocooning 'round Salinger,
lilting for Whitman–

flitting by Carroll and
flirting with Eliot,
sighing on Plato,
marching in Chaucer,
nuzzling up Dickinson,
lying with Hemingway,
giggling to Alcott and
gasping at Plath.

Murmurs of French
must have borne their babe souls,
gifting them music
instead of dry words.

Murmurs of French,
the language of beauty,
just buzz past my ears
'fore I swat them away.
It is fitting, I think,
that my tongue should collapse
upon trying merci
or a bon appétit,

and the lone French I can muster
is notably stolen
from the notoriety of
a Madame Marmalade.

Earth is composed of shadows,
and they are all gathered here,
shaking hands around me, but
my back shall not bend and
I shall not bow.
My friend Mediocrity is present, I see,
and I tilt my head in a nod,
inquire about his health,
but fail to embrace him.
Normalcy has appeared as well,
and on him I linger,
remembering the comfort he gave me
when no one else could.
It pains me to do it, but I depart once more,
with a glance back and a sad smile,
the one only comrades can share.
Failure tips his hat to me–
still I wander by,
leaving the shadows with the shadows
and searching for the light
I've heard humming in the distance.
I cannot stop for these darknesses.
They may be family to some,
but not I.
Not I.

I will throw myself to the wind
and trust it to take me to the sun,
and he, my brother, will show me
to the moon, my sister, and she and I
will laugh and sing and dance
until we are all we know of each other,
and I will die on a drunken
boat ride
with my face in the water
and my arms outstretched,
reaching to pull Sister Moon's reflection
into my welcoming grasp–
family that cannot be embraced.
And death will not be regrettable,
for though it came,
it came by casting off the shadows
and falling for the light.

A nightly caricature of love in the arms of strangers.
Shut my gray eyes and it
almost feels the same.

I never open my eyes
when they come near.
Ecstasy, confined
to the science of it.

Entangled legs for the sake of our skin.
Shuttered eyes and lonely fingers and
teeth and whispers and nails and caresses and clutches and kisses and
wide eyes and
shut them again.

Tired escape into the damp night,
darkness compounded as gray clouds
slink over the moon.
The night is weary, and I miss the sun.

I am weary.

Lay me down, and I
shut my gray eyes.