Room 212

 

A twenty dollar bill

and a two dollar

bottle of wine

 

Drinking from one

snorting through the other

chasing happiness a

gram at a time

 

We talk about the streets

We fuck and I mention

that if she got a tit-job

 

she could raise her prices

 

I know how to talk to a lady

 

She says I’m a good man

once the money changes hands

in here, under her, I want

to believe she’s right

 

But it’s quite a different story

beyond and outside of

that wafer-thin

motel door

 

 

 

 

This is Not For You (Unless It Is)

 

Would you rather I describe

the beauty of the tree upon

which a starling sits, perched,

it’s twig- like, tiny talons of feet, or

would you more enjoy witnessing

me unravel myself, one syllable

at a time?

 

I could tell you about the silver

sky of sunlight in a Faulkner story

line or I could bring you the dark,

the rain falling uninterrupted

inside my head, watering dead memories,

nurturing what should never live

to see the light of day

 

Why don’t you just write happy poems?

Why don’t you mind your fucking business?

I’m not doing this for you, I’m not

doing it for me-I do this for the one

not yet sitting where it is I stand

 

The one who might still have

the glimmer of a chance