refrigerator poem [and] not so much fear & loathing going on, today....

 refrigerator poem

~

I don't have 
my own fridge,
but
I don't have anything 
to keep in it, either. 

we're coming here 
instead of going 
to detox or a hospital 

or under a bridge or wherever 
we won't get chased 
away from. 

everything's 
crowded 
and 
annoying 
and 
damp, 
but 
at least 
you can take 
your 
shoes 
off. 

I'll eat something, 
fall asleep with 
my bones and my stomach 
stuffed crassly inside 
my clothes.

suffering is frequently 
a memory and not 
an ongoing circumstance. 
the morning will soon arrive. 





**** 

not so much fear & loathing going on, today.... 

~

little memories of 
California 
wander like curious 
spiders 
through my brain. 

TWO-THOUSAND TWENTY-
FIVE. I forfeited an upstairs 
bedroom in a house with a 
shared-bathroom that was 
effectively mine, but 
the brother & sister that 
owned the thing, on paper, 
at least: we're deranged 
in an American 1950s- sort of 
way, and I figured I was better off 
in some familiar/alien 
woods 
on the other side of the country. 

my shirts razors pens 
lighters notebooks headphones cellphones 
notebooks shoes traded for shoes traded 
for shoes lighters papers pens notebooks 
traded for more shoes and a different 
place to sleep... 

I didn't make any lasting friendships, 
except for maybe some feral animals 
and dogs--but then loneliness has a 
certain edge & sparkle when 
one sees the limit of the crowd. 
...I found my mouth, face, hands, else 
on a black girl that found me 
on Skid Row one day--either 
going to 
or coming from 
the junkyard--and an hour 
later we'd eaten some powdered mushrooms 
with "friends" of hers, mine 
and after the daywhite flash 
of a balloon afternoon I 
buried my energy here & there 
along the meth-ridden garbagecan-fire 
street and brought her 
what I could 
and a few weeks later I 
remember talking about Michelle 
Pfeifer to a brown girl who allowed me 
free coffee in a gas-station
most mornings, 
before I left one day 
after some breakfast of free 
marijuana Kedimine explosive 
cheer 
with these drugdealing hippies with 
a dog named Echo... 
but that is its own story, 
and I have neither the Sobriety 
nor the Discipline to 
expose myself to that sordid shit, now. 

Indeed: my brain 
pours forth 
from itself, 
from itself. 
confer with 
your basal ganglia, drain 
the precious resin 
from your veins.... 





**** 










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