in memory of

I was thinking of all the mausolea
and each time is like the last, in only the fact
that it's artifacts collected, revered solemnly, or left to sit

the turquoise bandana I got you to trade me for my red
and then insistently switched, post shower, pre bed
in an effort to save our scents on each
to leave with the other after.
That turquoise bandana, worn by you, smelling of tiger balm,
and your body
well I wore it to a thing and we all took molly
and it was a million degrees and stagnant as a coffin
so I put it in the freezer to wear as a neck-snake
which I handed around,
and after
you were nearly overwhelmed by the others.

The pink lighter I got you to trade me for my orange
the one others pick up, light things with,
and I'm staring
for the fist that clutches
for the pocket it's sneaked carelessly into,
for the rotation of it paired with the bowl.
When no one notices, I snatch another lighter and pair it with the bowl
insisting, to all who ask, I can't find it? use this one.
Nearly overwhelmed by others.

The strength left on my bed of you, of us
the pillow your sweated head rested on, your neck
pungent,
pungented on
the sheets writhed in by you
the net, wound around by you
and my friend, my companion, someone other than you
naps there.
and you were nearly overwhelmed by another.

And then, simply, the objects left
the empty can of lemon la croix on the edge of a tub
from our shower, the
half-full jar of water (bulgarian yogurt) resting on the sill above the bed
these are not overwhelmed by others
these are the last touches of you
your prints on my life, my room, my house of intimacy
These are the relics, the artifacts of my mausoleum.
These are the last bits of your touch on me, now.
These are proof to me that you were in fact, you
here
earlier
with me, in total

these are the only tribute I have
And they fade with each movement of the others, of another,
  but you will not fade
                as they fade.

oozehair

Tonight I went to a dinner party for a best old friend

and he made chicken in the oven and with tiny tomatoes and tiny asparaguys

and I sat across the table from an old still someone from teen years,

but with his two parents flanking us,

and I practiced with knife & fork to shred the thigh

this little juice thigh, and I also thought I don't know how to cut meat from the bone

because I was so meatless for so long

& I like chicken only twice, now

so nothing I think like would be perfect bacon

I listen to this song by adele a lot

where she walks through paris

on the rain bridges

with the jawbone & the cheekbone & the buttchin

looking sad like crying sad

like sad crying sad

sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead

The dinner conversation, how to kill a chicken how a grizzly kills a fish don't you gut a fish before you eat it, don't you pluck a chicken once it's dead?

I thought your parents were great. I liked the creamcheese frosting

My eyelashes rainwiping the insides of my glasses

if you call me I will answer,

if you call me I am calling you back

and I am talking to you for a million years

I came to my room & opened the door

and I found a smell to trap

sorry if you think that's gross, but the odor is in my top five.

I was afraid of the bedroom, waited till 9

I was afraid of the bed

I was afraid of the bedside wine box

I was afraid of the pillow, the pillow we stole and wanted & somehow sometimes shared

I was scared of one side of the bed

I am afraid to go into it

but I came and in the dark breathed it all in, pillowed

& filled with scents of another other than me

and you & me
and I am afraid more that should it not become an artifact
a museum room
in all its dust
and fur
and hair
and debris, and all of the soak in it
I'm taking pictures with the fingers on my face
& the fingers in my nose
in snaps and little licks

I washed my hair today, but it is not a better person for it

it is better though

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