The only way to make sparks fly
is to slam yourself against the guardrail.
You may hurt yourself and others in the process,
but they won't mind.
...
Not like honey or sugar.
Not like a lie.
A true nectar.
Like sweet soap or bitter fruit
...
I killed myself when I was least expecting it.
Suicide by miss placed hope.
I ripped my shirt open
and pointed to the spot.
...
The red light
has stopped winking at me
through the windshield.
Must be dead.
...
She feasted on my heart
in the back of a yellow cab,
stopping
only to gaze at me
...
The sign
on first avenue said,
'Pain is Not a Lifestyle.'
I walk'd past it,
...
The radiators were hissing,
and the fresh tallboy
felt like throbbing frostbite in my hand
as I broke down
...
A Native American stumblebum told me a dirty
joke in the bus tunnel.
I laughed even though I knew the punchline.
'Beef stroganoff.'
...
I am fine
with this blood
but will not tuck fading photographs
of my aging face
...
I'm ready
now
to leave off the heat
close the bedroom door
...
Bummed or borrowed
or sometimes bought
but always used
and flicked
...
Tender
I am ready
to make a peace sign
and spread my wounds
for you.
To show you what
doctors
friends
bartenders
even priests
have only pretended to heal.
I am ready
for you.
The heaviness
of not knowing
outweighs
the ponderous consolation of my scabs
and
I have no more blood
for myself.
I am ready
to bleed
for you.