When I told you I cut myself some days with that
mangle of chemicals, I greatly exaggerated
the fact she’s never coming back,
none of them; hear the shush from the Julia Green library bench.
Every rice bowl is delicious mixed with soy and sriracha sauce
on a bed of a cheap stripper, and
every movie packs a “you’ll never be this” walloping plotline
outlined with ideas more real than
fatalism. In a dream where
you ignored me at the courthouse,
we walked out the same door
the next night. Your commode was overflowing
on your head luciditine, sobering me
through a special kind of shameful arousal.
A black SUV backed into a too small two-car carport
wood brick top bottom, the look being greatly exaggerated
and only a little frightened
when I told you we would be killed;
you held your composure until the end.
The key to survival was never looking at
the past as more than a noir film with the cigarettes and black and white
women drying out in a jazz dinner show infested
jukebox hits you can’t stand, and most importantly
recorded not standing.
Ma’am please take a seat at the south end of my
mind’s table, and allow me to forget your scent
one last time before
the next course arrives.
