Monday, January 25, 2010
When I am alone my fictions
start doing exactly the opposite
of what NYC cockroaches did
when I flipped the kitchen light on
for the midnight double vodka
I thought would put me to sleep.
The women who buy your drinks,
the men who buy mine don't know.
Maybe it's too precious to bring up,
or it's just convenient to leave it out.
Like Heisenberg: speed or location
but never both at the same time.
Your monologues to me at 4 am
are my non-fiction bedtime story,
but most of the time all I have
to work with is the classic noir:
chalk outline on the asphalt,
a pool of blood, and no witness.
All I know for sure is that
when we're under
the Christmas tree
my fictions are quiet,
and in the morning you make quiche.