I hope to save my soul
by drinking cheap vodka,
writing poetry in the margins
of the San Francisco Chronicle,
and listening to Trip and Phil
exchange stories
of people and places
that simply exist
Trip and Phil engage
in a contest to see who can tell
the saddest story.
Their stories involve lovers
who leave or never materialize.
Mine is why I drink.
Trip’s story begins
with the sexiest-boy-in-the-universe
on the hidden back steps
of The Saint, New York City.
She tells of lust in the dusty darkness.
She tells of going to the Gap
on Broadway and Astor Place
where he works, pretends
to shop for Levi’s and boxer shorts.
When they finally go out, he confesses
he is gay.
Phil tells of August, the love
of his young life, whom he meets
while volunteering
to repair a vandalized Mormon chapel
in Berkeley, California.
August is covered
with white form painting the walls
and sawdust from sandpapering the
pews.
She stands on a ladder
and replaces a shattered light fixture.
Their first date ends
on the hills of Golden Gate State
Park.
After a year and a half,
August leaves Phil a note.
I choose not to tell my story.
It lies
on my skin a raised, pink scar,
too new and fragile
to expose to light. So small and
tender,
it would rip under an assault of
words.
I now understand endings always
hurt.
Stories fill with memories.
Instances, now over,
transcribed into language,
as roses always smell of roses,
poetry can never be more than words
and vodka only makes me drunk.
I hide in this cafe. I hear the deep
whispers of conversations, low sounds
of strangers. Secrets not meant
for me
to keep. I sit back and sink deeper
into my game of solitaire. The smell
of coffee surrounds me in flavors.
The air I
breathe tastes faintly of strong
cappuccino. The demitasse
of steaming espresso burns my fingers
and my tongue as I search the cards
for the Queen of Spades. Smoke
from cigarettes stings my eyes,
making
the threat of tears so much more
than real. Frustration and exhaustion
make it impossible for me to think.
I fear
if I stand and stretch, my body
will break,
like guitar string wired too tightly.
Iced coffee in one hand,
the indecision and confusion
of Spanish words
on a blue-veined map
in the other,
Stephen, ‘Gitta and I
sit and discuss
a trip to Mexico
An old transient
begins the dangerous journey
of crossing the street.
Halfway across he tires.
He sits and rests,
chooses to ignore
the swiftly approaching car.
He lies in the road,
an absurd dance
of twitches and taps
to the slowly approaching march
that heralds death.
I watch
as I sip my coffee.
A pressure takes my breath away.
No tears come. But God cries.
His teardrops cut a path
down the window where I rest my
cheek.
Your Mission was not done;
still, six months early,
you come home.
The plane stops and unloads,
your casket is delivered
from the belly of the plane.
Your mother collapses
into your fathers arms.
Your brother turns away.
"Damn." He utters.
"I should have written more."
A hearse waits.
I want to touch you.
All I can feel is unyielding mahogany
long hot slow
fire
air dancing
off the road
twist and turn
in the silent
music
of heat
i come to dubious wakefulness
as i ingest the dark liquid
so famed for giving life
would i could just inject it
the heavy fog of sleep lifts
as my controlled fires
fill my leaden lungs
while i sigh my tiny death
Under the lights we dance
with lifeless eyes
and black clothes,
we move to our own
funeral dirge.
We clench cigarettes firmly
in our beautifully manicured hands,
blowing our lives away
all in the name of cool.
hangs
clothes
on bodies
and molds
hair
to heads
as we march
along state st.
and blow
sour notes
into
instruments
during
the pioneer day
parade
rain
drips
from fingers
like blood
we lie
in the blue
and red
hammock
hung
between
plum trees
books
forgotten
in a summer
storm
rain
freezes
sharp
as lightning
steals
quick
as thunder
leaves
me alone
a single
green
and gray
argyle sock
rain
glints
like glass
shatters
at my feet
slams
into
the ground
drums
on a box
beside
a hole
into
a frigid womb.
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poetry