Done Day

I

A friend of mine,
an attractive man, with a girlfriend,
falls asleep in my bed.
Falls asleep with his hat on.
Neither of us notice
that the other is there,
asleep in only t-shirts,
with the hot window open.

In the morning, I wake up
to his alarm. He's still here.
We wave goodbye
to each other, and I'm not sure
we even speak.

I notice the sun
on his cheek.

I make coffee.
It's my only option.
I resent the brick wall
outside my window.
I get undressed
and back in bed.
I'm in search
of Duende.

II

I cannot find it.

I put on a dress
when an ex-lover calls,
wanting my company, always,
wanting it his way. I love
being around him,
so I say no, for the first time
in a long time. I'm trying
the best that I can.
I'm mean.

I say, "I have a life,"
and feel like a liar.

I go outside. I sit
on my stoop. I'm just trying
to breathe. To inhale,
trying so hard, oh Lorca.
I inhale, inhale. Empty, still.
My lungs suck in
as a valley, in,
in as a void.

I inhale, inhale,
filling my body
with air.
The world blows
and blows, so blue
with breath, with wind,
with nothing.
My dress whirls.

I am swollen
with the sorrow
of letting him go.

haiku on the rocks

Today, I enjoy

2 1/2 years sober

with myself, on ice.

Social Streakers for Walsh 403

Building friendship
on stolen decor,
scraps of newspapers
tape our walls,
when you see
NO DRINKS BEYOND THIS POINT
you better believe
this is homecoming.

Welcome to
the social masochist's Eden,
a wonderland
of leopard print,
Kelis soundtracks,
plastic vodka,
and a 50% sobriety rate.

Enter the trance
of petty destruction--
stolen meeting signs,
bolted doors,
searing chocolate,
our own Fight Club.

Boys transform
with every themed party,
another shot,
a new head.
They don't get
"Christmas in the Future"
but the neon skyline
of predator photo shoots,
exhaled confessions,
slip 'n slide breakups
is just enough metallica.

Come.
And we'll crash the Upper East Side.
Come.
And we'll beat up the entire bar for chapped knuckles.
Come.
And we'll climb the speakers to our own beat.
Come.
And we'll make out with your little brother.
Come.
And we'll make drugs into pink cupcakes.

As the list shrinks,
our fur grows,
a dorm turns into a legend,
a den turns into dare or double dare,
our battered kitchen,
our clogged pipes,
the beaten down beds,
our newspaper Picasso,
a charmed ethos.


Show us the dread of tomorrow
and we'll make it a drinking game.
Show us the scars of the past
and we'll make it a grocery list.
Even after move out day
I still live here,
with my five home girls.
Sunday morning with one
grind chain of a story to tell.