Monday, February 13, 2017

Never leaving las vegas

Sometimes we speak in my head/ a crest of breakthroughs.  You ask what I am wearing and I ask why so much the things from the yard. Stray lace and a marginal luau. You ask what color and I say is the strippers pole also her mirror, green. You say some shit about my mother and I watch you walk into a wall of glass. It shatters and I watch the blood turn to ash. The ice in your drink unites with the poison and before they took the tones out of language there was a word that meant stop poisoning yourself when the ice melts or it will take you along. Sheets of song not sheets of glass. Notes not blood. Corrosive dystopia, strut up your luck. Angela Davis debuts at your favorite strip club. In her fugitive days, lithe as a razor to naked cocaine. She has on her best Betty Davis nasty. The one who got beat not the one who got eyes. Black eyes. Sigh. Got ‘em. All on me. Ever wonder who taught you that need is dirty? Ever kiss one in the mouth?

Deep down we are most proud of the part of us we ruin in solidarity with this endless american winter : the need to be loved by the men we need to love, ruined  as them           ruined as them