the screen
the keyboard
the small room
the closed door
locked door
closed window
blinders keeping
the sun away
a chair
an empty stomach
protesting against
tequila
more tequila

ready

you can write now

In the dream
I'm a child
in a car
waiting for
someone to
come back.

I wait for
some time.
I climb the
seats, feel
the leather
between my
fingers,
roll down
the windows,
play with
the orange
float of the
cigarette
lighter.

But no one
comes. I realize
that it's raining
leaves and bits
of brick.
The world is
bottomlessly
vacant. I'm not
even sure who
I'm waiting for.
I curl up into my
favorite jacket.

I know it's about
abandonment.
My veins fill with
ampersands,
my eyes with
the ace of clubs.
I can feel my
breath blowing out
like a chandelier
of pain for just
a moment.

Then I pull it
together under
the dangling
jellyfish of stars,
to see what else
sleep has up
its sleeve.