((Currently Incomplete. Just sticking out some feelers.))


The last match I struck was in the back-alley-auraed underground entrance to the bar M—- sometimes DJed at, probably a Monday where Tuesday felt swimmy, humid, shitty.

I watched her snort from a vial she kept in a change purse & fed her cigarettes to calm us both down – I never felt enchanted by drug abuse, only anxious, like whoever took part might seize up in front of me, & if only I’d stopped it.

But her love warmed, I assume still does, like all the world’s acceptance contained in the lipstick marks she burned into cheeks when rolling from joy, natural or ingested, & she never used proudly, so I looked away as though that qualified as un-knowing.

Friends I still talk to say she does more now, bartending here & there, while I squeeze into other vials, the bottled-up Good Feeling for a handful of grantless Hes who manage to register shades of green when they hear of each other, fighting instincts to kiss my forehead, pry heavy feet from ground when my smile’s in hiding, but can’t bother with words on days away since there are roommates & beers & pains to be had.

Label me: For recreational use only. Consume with equal parts alcohol & carelessness. Contact your dealer immediately if you experience any adoration or attachment.

Withdrawal used to be pointed – I longed for the dining room tables, the coffee tables, the café & patio sets where I sat with so many, but yr city’s a sucker, & I miss my creep most passing minutes.

The air of infestation, mattresses piled & soiled, an hour travel time, the battle for open space we’d just fill with smoke & toxic tongues; Fuck, I want to hear horns, having to run across streets to avoid squeaks & whiskers.

I’ve scheduled a field trip to the currency exchange to see if I can trade in a back yard for a single bedroom & roach hatchlings around the sink.