Post-Everything

The sum of my fingers

surely add up

to pain

on bar tops

stacked with Steinbeck,

not meant for you,

not you as such

 

Too specific

the idea you represent,

from afar;

I break a pencil, a finger,

in love with your idea

as presented at the bar

you tend,

with hands long and wet,

eyes large and bright,

hair dark and abandoned

on so many pillows of late—

the

heart quakes at the idea

 

(“Sweet Preston of Ybor

a wish for more, to

a cracked heart leaking

all o’er:

 

Saint James of Drinks

after-hours and weak, to

combat in sleep,

come o’er:

 

Sweet Preston Too Late

I can’t seem to make

coherent verse;

stuck under lips,

where hours ‘come paradigms, I’m

shifting obsolescence”)

 

From my place on the floor,

I see only head fog

and heartburn ache;

arms gripped white

with finger trails;

I dream of her following,

spitting red on the floor;

I dance to her heart,

scratching the bottom of our love,

for so long,

I forgot who I was

 

Before you,

there must have been light,

nails on nether,

worrying away floor—

black and blue and red

 

I drink for sleep,

take a night off,

see quarters bathed in candle light

next to a stack of discarded novels: post-everything.

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