Friday, September 10, 2010



I am going to have a conversation
with la Edith Piaf; I am tired of living
out of neatly packed suitcases,
too many years looking over my shoulders
while I vanish into the space between
a couple of fig trees.

Once, comfort came walking in
like a careless lover.  He decorated my drink
with one of those a little umbrellas manufactured
in Thailand, shipped in giant crates from India,
and distributed to Mexico.  It’s not right to die
on the heat of a cowboy’s saddle.

When he left the family
picture on the grand piano dislocated. 
There was so much blood between us,
our lips were colored by sweat and
optical illusions on the bed.  
I miss that fucking bed.

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