Day Fourteen: ‘Honeymoon Is Over’

April 14, 2013

If I start to shake, he tells all,

throw a blanket over my bony shoulders.

Cubes then melt on tongues. Outlines puddle.

There was music, then stiff silence, then a rain

of strings from stereo. Jagged giggles.

Spinning sensations. Sounds without form.


We hoof around the gorgeous awnings and

the frequent shacks that peddle lotto, booze,

cigs and phone cards — selling everything

and nothing. We warm ourselves in the shadow

of the great urban rollercoaster ricketing down

the center of the road. We dose for hours.


There are 64-year-olds in San Francisco

still waiting to wake up. Four decades of color

have left their eyes vacant. No show and tell.

We feel the life embedded in our spines

each morning when we stretch. They continue

to rot umblemished in a swirl of youth.


All tapes have been erased. All evidence buried,

burned in the rubbish shoot. The outline emerges.


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