chasing one little baby tick of unblackened weed around the rim of the pipe, warm in my bone-cold fingers: cold white light and me here on this dingy old velvet couch listening to the boys in AIDS’s bedroom pretending it’s a real gym. they listen to eminem a little too much, but i won’t givem shit for it.
genezareth and hannah are considering busking on a corner on weekends; seabass was turned down for a resto job due to his lack of a work visa; bethany was selling Christmas cards for a euro apiece; i was considering selling knit caps, AIDS and I have discussed becoming regional camgirls.
we are sort of brutally poor, but we do our bestish. combat creeping depression with routines and rituals: open the shutters every morning and close them up every night, go for hikes, go for runs, do pullups and pushups and abs, chat together in the sparsely-furnished kitchen all squattin on buckets and low stools on the ground. we are all in balls deep for bernie sanders.
written fall-winter 2015. entry 1 of a series.
I cried for you in the kitchen last night
before I remembered
I live alone,
just like I wanted.
in the summer you said you didn’t want to be
another one of my guys that I write about
so let me keep this brief:
you have a horse mouth (neigh!)
and horrendous taste in music
you are small
yet the biggest coward I have ever known.
I could mention your pecs (I admit
they were nice)
or the way your half-assed chimney beard just
didn’t sit right on that horsey face (though
sitting on it was just fine)
or that awful tattoo you got when you gave up
all your dignity as a person (I guess)
but all that just makes for shit poetry.
just in general
you as a man, you make for shit poetry
not because you’re short or weird-looking or because you think it’s hot to shave
your entire body
“para que se ven mejor los músculos”
but because you’re boring and you just kind of
speaking of sucking ass:
you fucking gave me hemorroids with your mouth before I left
(one last gift, he said —
I will remember you always
especially for that
an hour of sleep over Vigo. cheap champagne and fireworks and two hours of sleep on a Friday. two hours of sleep with a torqued spine and a broken promise weeping like a rope burn. two hours of sleep and a jar full of moonshine. two hours of sleep and my blood can’t keep warm. three hours of sleep in a bed with four people. three hours of sleep and nightmares of green smears across the sheets. three hours of sleep and is that contagious? four hours of sleep and you wake up crying. four hours of sleep on the bathroom floor. four hours of sleep with an epileptic on the sofa. four hours of sleep with my throat clenched hard in the jaws of a stranger. four hours of sleep with the tv left on. five hours of sleep with the whole world beside me but I can’t stay awake to see it. five hours of sleep on a hill above the city. fice hours of sleep with a mouth full of fur. six hours of sleep over Paris in the dark and zero when I tell you to leave me. six hours of sleep scraped again by my own edges. six hours of sleep and his back is turned. seven hours of sleep waking up to love each other but zero when it’s hot outside. seven hours of sleep on a futon by the river. seven hours of sleep in another dirty basement but it’s starting to feel like home. eight hours of sleep in my own goddamned bed with four walls and electric heating. eight hours of sleep and I finally get it. eight hours of sleep alone.