Crying on the muni
Evy tattoo poking out from under my
mini orange dress
the one I gave myself after
your death
poking holes in my skin so that I could
feel something again
because pain is better than despair and
blood filled wounds are
better than emptiness
And I’m on the muni
crying under sunglasses
heading to downtown Oakland to put a face on
for journalism, because
hot dogs are being sold un-permitted
psilocybin churches raided and
the reputations of city officials
berated by the evil press while
I imagine my life as nothing more and
nothing less than
Eating mushrooms on the first
day of summer
we climbed to the top of Hendricks Park together and
then I got a call from work
had to go in and wash the dishes and
why does it always feel like something menial
is pulling me from you
From everyone, really
All the people that matter to me
overshadowed by the need to be something
But recently I realized my fragile identity was
mostly bound up in you
Our front porch cigarettes in the morning and
sizzling steaks on cheap Wal Mart charcoal grills
in the evening that
we gave names to and threw
birthday parties for
Our late night encounters on the laundry room floor and
baths in the middle of college parties when
there’s a line outside the door but
everything ceases to exist while the bottle of
almost empty fireball floats
amidst nipples touching and
curved lips laughing
kisses in a dirty bathtub hidden
beneath a moldy shower curtain
followed by your red silk sheets and
all the little black angels
dancing me and you to sleep after
one too many Rainiers and my
fears of paralysis
I’ll pick roses for you, or,
at least
I’d like to
But now your funeral is in the rose garden that we once
ran naked in, and
I’m thinking of giving a speech at your service topless but
I don’t think your Texan mother would like it
and behind another of these fateful rose bushes
two friends of mine made love and then
one of them died from drugs
in a Fred Meyer bathroom
And what is this fucking thing called life when
we’re not living, but dying, and
surely one of us is next, and
the most certain thing in life
is the most painful to expect
My dearest Evelyn
Your pale freckled skin
I smell the scent of lilac on it again and
remember when we stayed in Excelsior
you asked me if I wanted to have sex but
I was too drunk
and too tired
and now, no amount of
drunkenness or exhaustion could keep me from you
And my dearest Evelyn
I’ll plant a lilac bush for you and
from it
life
after all this death
will effloresce
and when I’m crying on the muni again
on my way to tell stories about the incompetencies of
regulatory agencies and of
old Indian men in IT who
decided to start a careers in coffee
I’ll remember your stale cigarette breath and
your teeth, perfectly carved to
eat meat
I’ll buy a cheap Wal Mart charcoal grill again and
this time
her name will be fucking Evelyn