maudlin

bits of mullein in the light
my gentle promiss
persuasion song
hello?
it's my last time, roll a louisiana cigarette
some hickory street smoke
no
something about it
something about me liking
something about me
I'm liking me
the acoustics I'm all about
my environment, you know
my environment

I love Kyle
I love Kayla

but they won't be coming back
....................................................................
last night at 8241 Hickory St, New Orleans

VENUS

my evenings in summer. I couldn't smoke at Kari's when I lived there so I found the clubhouse. when I'd ask people if they wanted to come there they'd say yes and we'd zigzag sharp upthe hill through the sages and past mellow pink & graygreen donkeytail succulents and we'd wedge our ankles into seats to prop us on, and they'd say, I thought there would be an actual house, here. I loved it at sunset 10:30 at the tip of summer mountain standard time, when up & to the right there'd be glowing venus. I can do anything I want to now, here, so I sit on the balcony in the trunk of summer at sunset around 8:07 central standard time and up to the right there, thar she glows. familiar as ever. if I were in Idaho still I might lament that the trunk of summer radiates nervously, that days shorten at not my wanting, for I've no doubt the same sun sets there, too. I share a timezone with you. doesn't that craze me? meaning makes me crazy. I'll always think of the sultry air surrounding me at this moment, forever I know it. I might not ever quit at saying so. time changes, my zoning mutates. but I've my forever promises & my familiar footholds in any muting sky of summernight. I'll die with some imprint of a silhouetted palm behind eyelid quakes.
there be no doubt in that.

regretless

I fell in love with this surrealist painter
he was my height, 100 lbs,
and I could pick him up & carry him over my shoulder.
he would laugh a lot, it didn't bother him, I guess.
he wore polyester printed largecollared shirts and a grubby fedora
and he had a shady dali mustache.
the first night he spent with me
was the night I punched my best friend in the face.
we were fighting & I demanded a cigarette so she threw it across the room
so I punched her in the face.
I'd been punching and getting punched a lot, those days
just being drunk, just for fun
but she didn't think that was very fun.
she had a pretty good black eye
and she wouldn't talk to me for a week.
the boy & I took a turn punching each other that night, and laughing
I gave him a shiner, too
but I already had one
from the boy I was already in love with, the boy who drove me to indianapolis.
the surrealist painter & I fucked a lot
we fucked on the roof of his friend's house
before playing poker with pennies.
I won that game, it's the only time I've ever played poker
so I am undefeated at poker.
before we fucked on that rooftop
I'd had to remove a tampon
which I left, as a sleazy fuckplace marker.
we climbed down a ladder into the kitchen
and I won $1.33 in pennies.
he was a drunk guy. the first alcoholic I'd ever loved
and when it got bad, when this tender genius would get wasted
he'd slur
and fall around
and I didn't like who he'd become.
his skin was yellowish.
he told me he wanted to cut back.
I learned to cook for him. I wanted him to eat something besides hot dogs,
but he didn't care what he ate.
I started riding a bike,
because I thought I could get some exercise into him
but he didn't care about that.
he didn't care about anything.
when I told him that I loved him
but we couldn't be together anymore
on account of his broken promises
and failed endeavors
he said, Okay. that he knew I deserved better.
he didn't put up a fight.
he moved away shortly after, he couldn't hold a job
but he made a beautiful painting for my birthday
which I left accidentally
in my basement.

eventually

yeah, I was sick & then I was filled with the life virus & then I made these promises that things were clean & upswept, but unfortunately I was cursed with a perfect memory, of faces, beard-scents, shoulder warmths, eyecolors. so I suffer, and it is tiresome, almost puts me in a coma in a blanket coma, and I try by reaching for all over directions. I want the hands of others around, and a different sort of conversation sometime. I think I will get out of here

bedtime

It's true, even though I say no, that I am hurrying around and it really doesn't look good. I always tell myself about patience, but I am so heavily off the edge that waiting for anything seems like a deathpush. I just took a shower and how unfortunate to bathe off the Payette from my hair & skin, and all are looking red & pale & curled & summery and also, I make all of these promises, and I have to keep them

to never tell them about you

to never tell you about me

to never talk more than I ought to

to never say a thing

& so unfortunate to be back, because there, I can remain resolutionless... but now I am naked, & under sheets, & with a fan blowing over me, and no one to joke with