a poison a day
I have been trying to find a poem every day. When I find it I pick it up with both my hands and walk it gently to the messiest bed, the overcrowded room where the broken live. I watch it stretch out, take two pinkie toes and separate them from the other toes; I watch it behind smooth glass in a comfortable place. When I see the skin seethe, I move it to it’s grave.
The bar last night was packed with men in wool parkas, this isn’t a joke. I followed Kate’s shoulder blades and when they moved all the parkas swayed with them. I ordered a beer that tasted like cough syrup and my mouth started to sing along to the words of the songs, into the microphone where they squirmed and sounded briefly like I meant them.
‘can’t say im not alive and i wouldn’t want it any other way’
I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror and the fluorescent light washed me out and made me uncomfortable, so i stood there and stared – my eyes, my flushed cheeks, my father’s mouth, until i felt average. like Stephen’s poem of happiness being harder.
when everything is
just what it is.
The bar tinted with this feeling. Kate’s shoulders did whatever they did, the parkas were visual vibrations, but i didn’t care anymore, even about the hours. Instead I swallowed sugar until the rest of the night spun into sand art.
and then you were there, with one foot kick-standing over the other, one hand on your hip, a clear glass with clear cubes. and i wanted to take you up in both hands and walk you to the overcrowded room where the broken live