Nothing of Cities

Fingers pressing on my chest
like holding onto a kite string to draw back the tension.
My ears are asleep behind carnival tents
but the flaps draw back just in the nick of time.
A dozen voices rise in rejoicing
while my raw throat sputters and sits on its hands.
Music notes like an eskimo kiss
and I wonder if that's all I'll ever need,
and I already know the answer.

I don't feel safe.

tried to find myself some light but all i got was a new moon.
tried to get back on my feet but kept returning to the wound.
tried to find myself some happiness but couldn't find enough.
tried to get rid of the sickness but it's tough, man. it's tough.

One thing I have learned is

you cannot leave your sadness in a corner.
If you put it in the corner and tie it down
and fill its mouth up with blood and bile, and
feed it drugs to shut it up, it will not go away.
It will sit there and stare up at you through its dark
crusted hair. (It lacks the strength to lift
its head.) You will feel its gaze on you.
But when you look over at it, it will
wrench its big desperate eyes to the floor.
You will catch it just as it looks away.
When you approach it with the syringe,
then it will stare at you. Its mouth will open
in recognition. And shock, maybe. It will
keep staring at you as you sink the plunger
to the base of the barrel. And it will tremble.
It always trembles. It will drive you crazy.
You will want to just outright kill it. But
you would never forget that. That is something
you would not be able to forget.

Fever and dream

(this week we imitate Jack Gilbert, a free verse writer.)

My head feels like a jet engine.
I spit the ground out onto the ground.
I miss when I used to feel safe
when I got sick. My cat would lie on my stomach.
He ran away when I was fifteen. Now I have nothing
but codeine and uncomfortable chairs.
No oases in sight, although
that may just be my vision going.
My friends are underwater and I desiccate.
My lungs feel like spilled cement. I start
wishing I could cough them up so
something would change. Think of asking the cat
to look for red spots in the dust. For now it's
just strings of spit, hanging like spiders
dangling from my mouth. This
is the company I keep. When I cough so hard
that my sternum grazes the upper bones
of my back, the spiders recoil.
My cat runs away to hide. Sometimes
he doesn't come back. I would look for him but
my head is spinning too fast, kicking up dust,
and I can't see.

two weeks and counting

sometimes sickness grabs you by the collar
throws you up against the wall and cracks
your sternum in two with his elbow. it takes
weeks to heal. all i can do is lay in bed
and think of my favorite things. friends.
windy summer days. pet cats.
books to read. red cars. holidays.
but sometimes we can't have all that. so we
take what we can get. friends.
the last days of autumn. a warm bed.
a new kind of piano. red flannel. two hours to sleep.
when i cough my sternum bucks back into
my spinal cord. i feel it when i put my
hand on my chest.

it gets a little hazy from here

i stand in dirty bathtubs
there are ten pints of blood
in the human body
he's lying on top of the lockers
what if he sees me
close the shower curtain
don't let the cops in
he's a big guy
how did he get here?
how did he get me?
my wrists are free
and why, fucking why
i should be terrified
but all i feel is the drugs,
and my insides have turned to sludge
i don't know where i am
so i cling to the shower curtain
and watch the door
and when it swings in
i see the sunlight on the floor
i just want to sleep, throw up,
something but
i can't lie down, there's
not enough room in the tub
so i cling to the shower curtain
i can barely stand
my friend is dead
i can't think how
can i make her alive again

he was a big guy. i fucked up. so he killed my friend. i don't know how he got his hands on me.

I need to move past all my wrong decisions.
but I'm stuck in the military sense of mind
of "leave no man behind." not even the bad parts of them.
So I go back, even if it means using the good parts
like a helmet on the stick,
and it's a crying shame but
not one I'll be crying about.

I'm stuck in the basements of horrible dreams.
these days my friends' eyes pass right over me.

and these days I'm so scared of the cold.
tell me, when will the winter end?
when will it be summer again?
when will I stop needing a friend?