The broken brained.
We use the same four digit pin for every transaction.
Never get the hang of phone banking.
Can't remember verbal passwords.
Prefer poetry because it's shorter and we don't get lost.
Poetry prefers us because it weaves and winds
all over the place like a rhizome teases us plays games
keeps us alive and kicking
The black and white dead people.
I sit in the hotel room leaf through the photo albums
Lots of black and white photos of dead people
Five or six overdoses
The end of a rope a cell
Hanging finger nail marks etched on her neck
she tried to stop but it was too late, the coroner said
Pills & wine
A bullet or two he didn't dodge
Survivor guilt they call it I sit in the hotel room
touch the dead people smother them in kisses, black and white
and fading fast
You don't like me talking to them.
Say it makes me melancholy
catatonic zoned out numb.
I don't want to join them today. That's progress.
I still talk to them most days they talk back.
At 2am 3 am 4am you find me in my Chelsea Hotel room, blackened
looking out that window at what
Neat stitches cut across my neck.
You didn't know someone slit my throat once did you.
She walked out on us when we were young
Turned up the volume Dvořák New World Symphony wailed
did not come back
Turn up the volume. That hurt. Hurt that.
When we were young things turned a little
stranger without warning silence grew, crazier
by the minute
The best scars you'll never see.