he wrote something
behind a paper coaster
folded it, threw it
my way

where are we going next?

no, no. i shook my head
i am not giving the next day
to a hangover
and a bad lay
I AM FEELING INSPIRED
i  can make tomorrow beautiful
cupping it carefully
in my hand
it is waiting to burst
and expand ...
...

tomorrow is now today
and I am in bed
sheets over my head
although it’s 6 p.m.
i was good
and went home last night
but i cannot escape the
sickness of my mind
this creature,
unable to breathe
in fresh waters
preferring the swamps
of the heart,
reminds me
there is always
tonight

start over

it is time

to shower,
pick up the beer,
there’s a handsome
man who lives
down the street
from here

the devil needs a new home
hell is in the skies
today
hell is in the heart that
cannot let go
sometimes the things you think you need
turn to fired lies
and shoot away
to leave you with a metallic aftertaste
what is a day off
what is a vacation
what is the hot summer
what is the sun

if it cannot feed my hunger
like you do

the night clings
to my skin
as it was meant to
spring is over
petals of blossomed
trees
hang on cobwebs
the car stereos blast
from the streets
and indoors
a man sings
i shall be released
to empty seats
worn booths with
the leather torn
dusty red drapes on both sides
of his stage

only i
am here
my palms outstretched
like a cat gazing
outside a window
waiting

my palms outstretched
asking
when? how?
can anyone see
this as now as me
and
who will it be?

she studies the history of colors
in a building that
lacks it
i study garbage tossed on
the side of the street
and worn out faces on the
city bus
i write simple words in
a coffee stained notebook
she writes long, complicated
sentences, elaborate
explanations, provides examples
on crisp white paper
Font size 12
Ariel Black

she asked me what
do i do?
and i said i am a hostess at a restaurant
but hopefully, one day,
i’ll get to sit around
and do nothing
when she left, i thought
our exchange went
smoothly
the next morning i heard
she said our conversation
was awkward

i nearly threw the blender against the wall because it stopped working in the middle of smoothing my drink. instead, i yelled and cursed and banged things and punched the counters, then i unplugged the machine, re-plugged it and it worked. my drink was very very good. i broke down, however, half way through Bowie singing Sorrow, even though it's not a sad song. i cried like i haven't in a while and i felt a bit better but also tired and slightly dizzy. i stepped outside onto the roof with my coffee, sat on the exit step and the sun warmed the left side of my jacket and it was delicious and i grew hungrier for something so i smoked three cigarettes one after the other and thought of this morning as an episode of sorts and thought of writing and being pacified and thought of  the wonderful things Hemingway wrote about Ezra Pound in a Moveable Feast and i thought of you.
how you're never coming back to me and how she's never coming back to you and how you must love her and adore her in her beautiful ways of being and how much i want you to love me and it will never be. i wondered how we will make it out, the both of us. life holds us in the palm of its hand. i always wanted to fall in love forever. more than anything, i wanted the taste of the eternal and i thought it would be delivered as a hero, as my savior, like peace sweeping up a battlefield, the ****** and gore erased. i thought i'd be graced one day. then i could die and i wouldn't mind. but today, everything appears distanced and i know the next few years will hold hardships and be far from simple, and something weak inside me inflames and cries about it. i don't want to go through with this anymore but i don't want to die. i don't want to do anything other than be held in the palm of life with you, our own palms pressed against each others.

glass jars are often knocked over from the top
shelves of Grandma's kitchen by
little candy-wired brats
we're going to shatter on the old wood floor, my friend
and all around they will hear the loud
crash and be stunned and horrified
and we will spill out and the
damage, the freedom could never be
undone. i feel it. a change is
going to come. we are not meant to be
kept like this.

a change is going to come, i don't know when
or how but something is starting
i feel the shift, pressure is building and
breaking. is it discomfort? an unease?
restlessness? it feels as if disconnected
parts of my life are stringing themselves
together, to form some new textile.
material beyond the imagination and
of utmost beauty.
i feel like i will finally be
pushed to do that which i always
wanted and wished to do

write.

the pen is my lover, and i only scribble
on and on and on about heartache and the paper
understands, and i wish i was graced with the ability to write
about people and exotic places and beauty
but my heart is sore and so i
scribble on and on and on about the boys, the ones I
could never have, a love that was far-fetched
and an idealized romance

my inspiration comes from one place
an empty bucket with a fat leech
rolling and squirming at
the bottom
the leech is the dream
to the leech i drain it
give it away
let him feed on me

at the airport i see a tall man
with green eyes
the bucket fills, i'm allowed to long
and believe
i write
as the dream slowly *****
the juice away