Tuesday, Apr. 08, 2003
full of a lot of things
falls and shatters all over the kitchen floor, and then there is the shouting.
There are repetitions of sentences and an oblique use of an obscenity.
You and your friends are told to leave.
The word cronies is used.
You move under an overhead light and through the crowd that spills from the kitchen in to the hallway, past walls that are close and are painted white over yellow over wallpaper, and white lipped blue plastic cups will leave cloudy indelible rings on shelves. The bookcase is the only one left that can stand upright at this hour. There is a reverberation of drums beats under your feet. Something in the basement is trying to be birthed and is messy and awkward and sloppy. If you were sober enough to creep a look down the wooden steps loose christmas tree lights with their eyes crushed out, a bike pump that lays on its side, rusted paint cans, milk crates of paperbacks and dusty beer bottles would be waiting.
Though not as loud
As your movement.
All banter has ceased
everyone is looking at you
while someone ashes on the floor
and looks away
Your footsteps are strident and purposeful.
I say to myself: Cull, to cull, the culling.
Drunk and oblivious
you pass me in the hall, as close as sex, and drag across me
your hip, waist, and the swell of your breast.
Whatever I had been saying
tastes of like dust on the tongue.
You are a red and black caterwaul.
You are an unbelievable thing
as you move to the front door.
Scintilla of a car wreaks.
All light from our eyes touch you
your circle of dark fire.
Twined in ours
breaks off as cinders
under your eyes
Fingers of carbon black
We make ourselves small as you pass
And you take all our sparkle
replace it with focus
pull it to you
And we will stand struck
Until you leave.
Except for the one by the door.
The blue of your eyes
marbled with blacks, shades of Mexican coppers
And the green of everything you have lost
Will not waver from her face
You say: Get out of my way.
And she does.
I watch as they walk you to the door
and then hear
bottles break in the street,
under a circle of porch light.
Days later, you will tell me
As we sit in a parking lot
and the April rains pounds the roof
Of my car
With the radio off and both feet on the dash board
Sharing a chocolate chip cookie
That this scene made you wetter
Than any boy
you have even met.