Black shirt Black

Five years ago
and in another country
the black long sleeved shirt
became mine
drenched in pink vomit
that took countless washes to rid
the night he read me the letter
I would have kept had it not been lost
I would have remembered had I not been drunk

we never were really together
and we never met again
but I still wear the black shirt to bed
but I still love that man now in my bed
who lets me do what I never did
with the black long sleeved shirt

to become a magician
that could turn all her things into garbage
her earrings into rubbish, her socks into trash, her scents into waste, the bed they shared
all disappear in a black plastic bag
to never be seen again
to never exist again
nor before

but I'll wear the black long sleeved shirt to bed.

My mother's aunt
had enough hair to count
and a glass eye
that could see everything my mother said
She had meticulous fingers
and talcum white wrinkles
a hunched back
and an elegance that made you silent
Her talking also made you silent
She had shutting up difficulties
and so she talked all day long and throughout her sleep
telling detailed stories with closed eyes
about Robert John y el pollo

She was old-fashioned and somewhat racist
but I forgave her because
she adored the smell of mothballs
and liked to dance with rags drenched in parafine.

Last thing I knew, she thought she was having an affair with the President.

I don't know why I talk about her in past tense
She's isn't dead yet.

culottes

"Culottes! Culottes! Culottes!" he screams

over and over again

"Culottes! Culottes! Culottes!"


Sometimes he jumps around

kicks his legs

sits up

lays down again

throws punches in the air

screams some more

and when he wakes

it's as if he had never slept

for he spent 9 hours in bed in

intense physical and vocal activity.

One time he pissed in the corner

of his ex-girlfriend's bedroom.

One time he entered her mother's room at night.

One time he said my name repeatedly

and I knew then

that I'd have to remove my culottes some day soon.

some days

One day
the coffee shop
I began to frequent
burned down
and there was no where else to really go
and the people just walked by
as the building disappeared under
a hot cloud

and then one day also
she asked me some questions
and then said:
"I'm very sorry you came all the way
but we do not do research on people
with depression,
but you can have your 10 bucks anyway
and you can spend an hour with the snake anyway"
and I thought to myself:
I can do all of that, but I'm gonna surely be depressed anyway.

and then after
on one day
I decided I didn't care anymore
and I started eating meat.

bottled

I scream
I scream
I scream to fuck me
and to fuck me harder
and inevitably
the trip becomes trickling down short
and he'll go fetch water
the way dogs do
and I'll press against a pillow
-the coldest and furthest one
from the pseudo-wet mess-
with his panting in the far space between us
my style unimpressed
my eyes unreadable.

Sometimes,
I can love him after it's done
sometimes I roll over to escape his touch and his "you're gonna kill me"s.
and quite honestly, none of this would have any relevance
if it weren't so true to the rest of it
if feeble prose and 'i love you's were not merely art deco
if i had the figure of a beer bottle
and if sex really would make everything better.
but i choose to roll over
and do as him
and forget
that the bottle isn't rolling.