Zen.

There was a big black mark on him somewhere cruel,

His mind full of cuts -- nightmares and tics.

He’s dead, sweet calm, enlightened and lost,

Across five hours of distance, my guts are spineless,

With my unnoticed desire, cheap and unwanted as a florescent light.

Diners and lemon pie melting into neon,

I was wearing pink socks up to the knees,

He couldn’t let that pass, no. He had to talk.

Smitten with his black wool coat, his manner,

My late night demands for coffee to keep us woozy and awake.

He talks of soccer practice and Boston Cocaine,

He tells me I can find peace and happiness.

There was heroin and maybe the Russian mob,

He tells me I should try to meditate.

He would have killed himself by cutting his throat,

I cringe to hear it, and he wonders why, so long past.

Now he’s zen, it’s alright, though he’ll keep his perverted pride,

In the back pocket, casual like change, the ugly, the bloody,

The things he did. He’s better now, he can talk about it now,

“You didn’t even know me then.” He pleads no sense

That anyone with born fear can’t miss the sickness

At the opening mouth from ear to ear;

The sickness at the very suggestion of the head

At a time like that, deathly silver in hand, all words bleak and roaring.

Giving in to the blinds.

Radio tuned to endless, pitched, and jabbering static.

-LIS (written January 08)