According to Lumen, Phosphor,
Fluor, Candle, Heaven looks
like San Francisco. Here in
the city of your flying, my
phone line finds you, dirty
from the alley, and from the
needle, choking on regret.

You've spent the goodwill of
your sober months, bartered
your AA chip for a cheap shot
into a vein. The crook of
your elbow is an open, accusing
eye. The ensuing staring
contest drives you half-mad.

I love you even into collapse,
even into fall from temporary
grace. From the bleak, desperate
humor of your voice, I try to
reconstruct your face, the way
your dark eyes must glaze over
with your unfailing self-pity.

Still, my hold on the telephone
is tender, a mother or a lover
could do no better, though, in
truth, I'm nothing to you. Just
the girl of the fanciful poems,
another thing for you to love
less than your vice. I'd think
you were an angel, if you hadn't
trapped me in your human clay.

03/13/2004

Author's Note: One of two poems for the last round of the slam at writing.com, of which I was the winner. The prompt was faces, a Jekyll face and a Hyde face. This is the Hyde face, the not so nice side. For the Jekyll face, go here: "The Light of God" Oh, and in case anyone was confused, the first three lines are a nod to Angels in America.

Posted on 03/14/2004
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