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Monday, November 02, 2009


1
An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn.
The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night
is thinking. It's thinking of love.
It's thinking of stabbing us to death
and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
That's a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey and kisses for everyone.

Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknife
carves the likeness of his lover's face into the motel wall. I like him
and i want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.

5
It wasn't until we were well past the middle of it
that we realised
the old dull pain, whose stitched wrists and clammy fingers,
far from being subverted,
had only slipped underneath us, freshly scrubbed.
mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us,
replete with the tight lips and eyes that remained eyes
and not the doorway we had hoped for.
His wounds healed, his skin thicker than before,
scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.

--Richard Siken

she's not here @

4:48 PM