watched stupid television things.
strangers kept knowing my name.
as I set the couch on fire.
we all pushed it out the window.
and into the polluted river.
afternoon found us antsy or bored or both.
so we went outside with open wounds.
and made snow art with our blood from last night.
Jerry designed an anthill out of a snow mound.
Sue threw her tampon at a squirrel.
and I wrote a poem with a bloody thumb.
someone made biscuits and chipped beef.
we devoured on the roof with slushy beer.
shooting off our mouths like perfect, punctuated pistols.
dusk comes quick and early in these parts.
and so do parties in strange apartments.
where getting lost is the right thing to do.
midnight manufactured itself just in time.
for a fire and a fiddle performance from one-hand Hank.
this must be what they're talking about when.
they say life is remembered via certain nights clapping.
and crying from laughter until the sun comes up.
the highway hides until all the serotonin is gone.
the morning Cadillac ride back to the world is quiet.
reflection from the time(s) that will never come back.
and the people whom you won't remember their names.
and they won't remember yours, even in a grocery store.
silence sings, while Eddie drives fast on slick, empty freeways.
my thumb still throbs under dirty bandage, a delightful reminder until it falls off.