Tuesday 7/17/2007 12:43:00 AM

I'm all out of wax. All out of wick. All out of flame.

We're still pretending. In suitable prayers that someone's listening. The sadness is medicine. The silence is resilience. Learning to swim by drowning. Learning to live by dying.

He never said much to me. Just little suitcases on his way to somewhere else. Conveyor belts of skin waiting to pick up his luggage. I didn't say much either. But we drank a lot together. In apples on shaky heads. In arrows almost pointed at. A year's worth of cigarettes in one night's condition. Passing out with the phone. Waking up to the disconnect.

He would lie sometimes when he felt he had to. He would listen in deep breaths. Trying to calculate the impact of the dial tone on the dreams we would have. The child arguing with mirror. Because it can't be right.

2 comments:
New York Crank said...

I'm, like, with you, man. I mean, like, I feel the same way.

There is no jelly
In the old jelly roll
Tonight
There is no sink
In the old sink hole
There is no ink
In the inky bowl
There is no jelly
In the old jelly roll
Tonight

Crankily Yours,
The New York Crank

alcoholic poet said...

cool.



| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.