Monday, July 14, 2008

How We Spend Our Friday Nights

the flesh cooked so soft
barely clings to the bone
hanging like a stranded climber
like a man with a drink
Alone in a room full of people.
(you wonder if the man with the tray
will notice that this is the third kabob
you have swiped).

your pocket is full of mini-javelins.

she is talking,
swaying to the music--
a dull thump of bass
in the background--
and her cheeks are pink
from how many glasses
of pinot.

you smell the smoke in the air
men are playing pool in the next room
you were a child once
at parties like this.

you were upstairs in your room
and you would sneak out after waiting
and you would watch all of the adults
naked, out of their skins.

they talked to each other so desperately:

hoping to find god
On the comet tail
of every Tic-Tac coated breath.

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