No shuttle can take me where I wanna go,
terminal d is the outside edge and god only knows
what she sees when she rakes me like this,
when she says I don’t look right sitting here alone,
she’s riding planes instead of brooms and
were she to stop waiting for the phone to ring
she could squint her eyes and change this weather,
I know it, but she’s living deep in February
where he told her she was just too old, I tell her
she is beautiful, tell her Friday’s on my hands,
I laugh and she says I’ll be damned, your laugh sounds
just like mine only mine is dead, a grand disguise
but honey, yours is still alive and we creep onto the ceiling
where she lights me up a smoke, we’re hidden here,
she says to me, tell me everything, but she’s licking
at her fingertips and I’m laughing now again,
always trying to turn the page, she says,
always trying to turn the page, but all
I ever seem to do is take another drag

but I’ve got Friday on my hands, I yell,
in thick black ink, rubbed against the knuckles
of another brand which sieged and shook
my core and bone, seeped its way within my blood,
light me up another ‘cause the only thing to make me cry

is smoke in the eyes.

06/03/2012

Author's Note: 2005

Posted on 06/04/2012
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