I sleep with silverfish 

that live in the books

I've pulled from storage. 

This is not my mattress. 

Mine caught fire. It's still 

serviceable though it smells 

of Heather and ash. 

These books are stale with 

long ago, aspiration,

and telling it slant. 

You introduced me to my future self

I am grateful and hateful for it

hateful for the hurt the loss the trick

grateful for love for my future self

hateful for obfuscation deception poor me reception

grateful for love of my future self

I am closer to who I will be

the farther from you I am

I am

from you I am

I am

I go back to

read poems

I wrote for you. 

My heart -tender

still- argues, then

to forgiveness,

kindly yields. 

A cacophony of shadows and all I feel is fear.

A cavern opens in the depths of my chest and you're no longer there. I have to face my deepest self alone, as always. There are no ribbons, no bows, no party hats. Just strippers and drunk clarinet players and the tonka, tonka, tonka sound of the streetcar rolling the track and the smell of electricity and the hiss crack burn of broken hearts everywhere. After a good rain, the city is reflective. It shimmers like a mirage. Magnolia still lingers lightly about the decaying drunks dragging prostitutes with names like Bella and Trixie and Heather to those five hundred dollar a night rooms. I wander out into it, still sober, still penniless, still filled with the Rothko exhibit and the trumpet player's lament and the smell of beer spray that tourist sprayed in joy and surprise at hearing that guy blow that horn so perfectly against your cloak of self pity. You it wear like an elegant gown. Ah, screw it. Now I'm pointing my finger. I'll open my hand and let my shaky ring finger wiggle under the new let mist. It breeds with the odor of street gravy, leftovers, and junkies fixing and looking for fixes. Nobody knows why they're broken except the Buddhists. Just get me closer to my suffering, closer to my hurt. I want to make intimate relationships with my resentments, my character flaws. I've befriend my sorrow like rocks in a rushing stream befriend fish shit. Unmoved by anything but acceptance. I am flawed and flawed deeply. Used and used cheaply. So yeah, I'm afraid. Terrified of going it alone again.

What's really incredible is how well adjusted I feel after heartbreak. If you're an emotional poet like me you've likely been taken advantage of by soul sucking lunatics on more than one occasion. I mean, it can't just be me. I read what some of you write. 

Anyway, it's amazing how close I got this last time. What really thrills me is how quickly I've been able to bounce back. Oh, I'm not ready to date or screw but, the energy is different this time. I tracked the whole thing in real time. I saw the decent into madness as it happened. I could step out of myself and watch what I was allowing -the manipulation. That's the closest I've ever come to honestly respecting my own boundaries. I'm patting myself on the back. Still resentful though.

before rain starts,

grass on the 

embankment 

edging 290

rolls like 

a green lake 

my car idles

rain pounds

wind howls

They want to play 

like they're 20, 

but they're not. 

They want a practical 

solution to something 

that can't be fixed. 

Either that or 

they want an artist 

to fuck them. 

You've cut me 

in such a way,

i didn't know

i was cut. 

an ample slice -

my insides fell out 

while I went walking. 

a jaundiced excrescence 

stuck with pebbles, 

dirt, dried leaves.  

attached?

the utensil lodged 

in my ribcage.

scavenger birds circle. 

stray's come smelling.

and look! 

my soul!

filthy with doubt

it bathes in a

fountain to wash. 

"I'll be fine," my soul 

thoughtfully mumbles.

so you can hear

so you

    can 

    rationalize   

your 

cutting.