Same Broke Dream.
Broke
Dream.

In Paris,

I was greeted with a hug
and the news that
someone else
was staying with us
in her family's
flat--

(I don't want to lose
the anger,
the trouble,
and won't).

Wishing it would snow forever.

Every week a week a week
Sane routine of survival and
lament,
old days of insanity (gone)
sane fulfillment
happiness at baked bread and
balanced bills.

No more remembering not
remembering curly haired
dough faced Art History undergrads.

Sharp-jawed evil loose bartender
girls intent on breaking skin,

No more hurriedly fingerfucking
sharp-jawed evil loose bar girls
pressed into evil dark bar
corners,

Pressing sharp jawed
loose bar women into evil
dark wooden bar corners,

They become the corners,
merge with the wood and,
once again,
you settle your elbows and
let your feet drift
to the bar rail.

Erik Satie and
wind.

Serene,
familiar melancholy.

A gray sky and
ice rain in Chicago--

Icy sidewalks.

Deny the urge to burn
anything written that betrays.

If I forget,

to remember:

It took seven

days,

and she kissed me

first.

An early morning

rainstorm,

I bumped into

her on purpose but

she just thought I

was being clumsy,

or drunk.

We'd crammed into the

backseat of her

coworkers car,

and the trunk was

filled with bottles

of wine.

I remember I

danced with her friends,

but only so she'd see

me dancing.

We'd met at Miami

for this,

and I remembered

the night I saw her;

I'd asked my friend

for her name,

but wouldn't let her

introduce us.

I wish I'd known

that she'd left the

bar to cry in a

taxi,

and find her way home.

She told me she

liked my jacket,

it was my father's

and I tried to say

something interesting,

but didn't.

I thought she

didn't like me,

and she thought

the same of me.

When she kissed me,

after our early morning

rain storm wandering,

and I closed the door

of the taxi,

I thought how nicely

it

had

all

gone.

If I forget

to remember—

I loved her first,

and you can ask

my friend Kelsey,

for proof.

I wanted to tell the

man working the cafe

counter to listen for the

whistle in this song,

the one playing as he

handed me my drink,

because my old dog used

to bark every time he

heard it as we were

preparing for Sunday dinner.

I didn't,

But as I stood

at the corner,

whistling the song,

I thought of my

Baron,

and could feel the scruff of his neck,

the movement of breath

as he expanded his

barrel chest.

And even now,

as at the stoplight,

I felt enough for the day,

and just missed my

good

old

dog.

Happy,
skinny,
and
fucking miserable.

Drunken
Rooftop
Sunrises.

Keybumps,
nosebleeds,
and panic.