Happy,
skinny,
and
fucking miserable.

Drunken
Rooftop
Sunrises.

Keybumps,
nosebleeds,
and panic.

Fucked me some

funny

looking

women.

Two boys sitting in a

studio

listening to rap music,

burning nostrils and

blood still fresh in the

bathroom sink.

Drips of perfect

blood on the porcelain,

on the dusty wooden

floor and I swear

I cannot look in the

mirror.

I swell my eyes

at myself,

rationalize

and then

emerge.

One deep muttered breath.

Drysalt jetty rockfeet and

frozen squid thawing in a

tidepool.

Broken pink wampum shells

sharp enough to cut,

fishing poles carried over brown

shoulders and the shadow of

boys carrying an old bucket

with spider web under the lip.

Pink sky,
saltwater,
and
Heat.

A 20 year old

Dirty kid,

With student

Teacher clothes,

Undergrad's books and

Never enough silence.

I waited for

Her.

She never came to

Ask me what I was reading.

Billy came to

Give me whiskey and

Tell me about the horses,

And the old

Cafe des Artistes,

The kitchen behind the wall that

Hadn't been used since he

Lost it all on the

Goddamn

Horses.

She never climbed the

Crooked thin

Staircase to

Ask me,

Honestly,

What I was reading.

It was always

Billy,

And his goddamn

Sad stories about the

Horses,

But he brought me the

Ring-stained

Tray,

And the

Single shot of

Jameson that,

Like butter,

Melted my tongue and

Made me not wonder

So much,

Where she was,

Instead of asking me

What I was

Reading.

If I had had more time,

I would have

had more time.

A dirty

25 year old

Kid.

Still dirty,

Still waiting.

He asked me how to write

So I sat him down,

Told him to look at the paper.  

Think of everything you want

To write.

Think of whatever you think of

Whenever I tell you to think of

Everything you want to write.

Think of women,

First,

And of drinks/drunks,

What seems to deserve to be written.

Think of childhood,

Filth,

Dirt

Blood,

Etc.

All of it.

Think of them.

You are not them,

They are not--

Fill your boxing gloves

With sand.