Oct/Nov 2012

I was reading poems outside the bar like a misanthrope
trying to look interesting. I was choking on a black
shard of desire too sharp for the sword swallowers.

Wasn't I precoscious and dangerous, once?
I remember thinking: if I continue being this 
charming they’re going to have to kill me
in my sleep if they want to kill me because
otherwise I’ll just talk my way out of it.  

My cigarette mouth must get so tiring.

Throw me from your bed and make me shut up.
Send me out in fresh dew, up all night, into streets
lined with slickbacked cars dreaming. It is 6am,
7am. The first time or the fifth. Who’s counting?

We do it to ourselves, anyhow. And sometimes
it hurts, of course, but I'll dab away the blood
from a million split lips before anyone tells me
it's not beautiful anymore. Anything that persists
in this world is beautiful, and you, darling, above all else.