Dez
→ PUBLISHED IN ISSUE NO. 30: SPRING/SUMMER 2023
Your arms stretch in an old Niners jacket.
Chin drops, pulse in stomach; with the Giants’ pride,
heels of high tops, Doc Martins, you yearn to sleep, pawn
each exhale. Your tall legs ache. Stale air bruises arteries.
Heavy eyelids chip paint. The bloodshot fold foil.
Crusty veins pierce pavement. Lost leeches scramble
for blood. A breeze of needles caresses your skin,
combs your hair. The anorexic with a silver wig lied––
Everyone doesn’t get their fifteen minutes of fame,
of glory, of the neon lit parade down Central, where street
rats wave hello, and empty cigarette boxes hold funerals.
There is a Do Not Resuscitate label on your forearm.
Oily fingers, the grease and grime of summer,
you’re down to four Marlboro cigarettes a day.
When I visit you, we’re both wearing black.
The Beatles’ White album is playing;
John Lennon is singing I’m So Tired.
I know you’re tired. As you burn in this Brooklyn kitchen,
the murderer is so seductive, deceptively dainty.
The warmth liquifies the streets on silver spoons.
Gentrified apartment complexes
dissolve,
disintegrate,
crumble into dust,
everything turns black.
And you’re right back in the nest––
the requiem to rest in, the darkness
one calls home in, the faces
conjured, the silence of ears ringing.
The last time,
my friend, you knew
