another tomorrow and jake and i have helped each other evade bathtubs full of slit wristed thick red sea water
and sam still puts medicine through his stomach full of scars via word reciprocity and long ash tips of cigarettes from the well of my bucket full of loose tobacco.
and tonight my bed will have blankets on it but this time next month who knows.
and tonight i pluck smokes straight off of the cigarette tree and drink whiskey straight out of the faucet in my bathroom but on this night of march 2nd next year who knows
my cigarette is getting awfully short and the whiskey is starting to stink up the bathroom and you can only clean vomit out of the toilet so much before it really gets backed up.
we fill notebooks like minimum wage prison letters while one ribbon of smoke hangs above each room like a solitary sign to let the god that comes home drunk not to be to pissed at us and if we were isrealites then middle america is a desert and we stare at train tracks and old church busses with utter abandon because we know that somewhere in there is the cipher of destination.
this lampshade is lookin awfully comfortable but naked girls who pose like man ray photographs come and go with feckless abandon and sometime in the near future, you, sarah, will leave my mental capacities to dream of earch angels desolate as jack kerouac writing haikus on the underside of a surrealist manifesto of a recreation of the tower of babel on the underside of a musty legendary desk in a skidrow of a hotel in mexico in 1953.
you will leave me hallucinating man ray photographs that i have never seen except in real life when it is very dark at 3:30am and no artsy picture has made me cum twice with her mouth in quite that exact way so if you wondered if i'd ever write poems about you too, well, here's yr fucking answer.
you will leave me a string of profanities gargled out of an open fall bus window in portland long after i have abandoned blankets and lampshades for rug burns and the tea of strangers at entirely too early in the morning for two transients to be awake.
this is not a love or even the last half of a 'like' poem exactly,
this is words flippantly doing cartwheels at the thick cusp of incoherency
a last thick-throated gargle with the whiskey from my faucet spilling loosely from my mouth and into the toilet,
spilling loosely from my mouth,
into another tommorrow
where our cigarettes burn forever and the stomach you skillfully kissed is hung with stars
and our broken condomed children will thankfully never happen and the wilderness i am certain you will leave me with would make certain 12,000 square foot chain wilderness stores in stripmalls in st. charles, MO, so goddamn jeolous.
you were the reason i stopped using big words and started faking slang so's i could describe this thing in its natural state,
for the record you are the reason young boys misquote velvet underground lyrics when they think no one is looking.
certain obscure post-hardcore bands have made punk operas about this sort of thing, thank god i only have created 183 thickly incoherent lines on the subject, spilling sloppily into 186.
I won't go too much farther or deeper or whatever you'd like to call it when through post-post-modern trajectory verse you peel back whole layers of life like a lightly bruised onion, only that you are the dank basement beneath a wine bar that the oregon poet walt curtis becomes a wino in.
if you don't know what i'm talking about and you probably won't, ever, then this last etching on the dingy tile floor of night really wasn't for you exactly after all.
only for the unwashed imprint you left in my bed.
only for that art is better left lived and in that case you always win.
only in that jake and i helped each other evade the bathtubs today and you were someplace god-knows-where
and the stomach you kissed is skillfully hung with stars still till tommorrow
and tomorrow is another tomorrow.