GHB

You won’t wake

up again.

You won’t wake

up again.

You woke up late

with a handful

of hair.

Last night,

so gone

except for a taste

clings,

magnetized

remains unmoved.

Did it grow there?

Is it yours?

Somehow you recall

the moon’s

underbelly,

a balcony,

wringing hands

footsteps

through the french

doors

turning your head.

A metal scream

then

nothing.

Unisom

Sleep talks

whispers

to you

how much it misses

how lonely

it’s been

in the black caves.

It wants

to grab,

spin you around

shyly

like a palm

to stick its tongue

into

your ear

jam up

from behind

fill your abdomen

with warm

milk.

But it can only whisper

from the corners,

it can

never reach.

Across the hall

sits

the dead god

the pig god

of the cabinet

and in bed

there is only

the collapse

of a childhood

and everything muffled

like underwater

but gentle.

Xanax

You gather

in ringlets.

The teen in

the falafel truck sees

the coil

of your tattoo.

Your spine seduces

like rain

you show him

your muscle

your beautiful mountains

you shine

calcium teeth.

The teen

in the falafel truck,

you think,

is a teen who

has seen women by

the pool.

You walk toward

him

in new sun

you ask

why he is

late.

With your face open

you ask

about flavors.

The teen

in the falafel truck

is silent.

You sing

to him.

Zoloft

The good fog

sweeps in,

rolling between

ribs

the other side

of the bay

looking back.

You practice speech

before the glass,

walk the room

back

and forth

fingers prowl long

last-night-in-the-city hair

practicing

before the glass.

Outside the window

a silver fish

flies

kite tail

a three-yard streamer

dripping

and hitting dune tops

rising again

shining

in the sun.

Later, coming out

of it

you sense

bone on skin

like lightning,

steel flashing blood

on cement.

A plane

flies over the city

leaving guts

and rooftops

and below

a silver fish

tail tangled in

a fire escape,

trapped behind

the glass. 

Cocaine

All you have

to do

is:

bend down

swirl your leg

in an elegant arc

when it connects

to his spine

to the kidney

his hair

jolts, the knife

flies like

cartilage,

or in one vaulting

spiral

you saddle his

shoulders

neck between

your legs

you ride his strangling

face down

like what the book says

on the cover

You’re in

a suit, short hair:

ready for it

fingers jammed lethal

Tonight the knife

is real

the books live

your mind

has turned

or you’re somewhere else

entirely, restaurant

elbows rooted

to the table

as you look

down

bled eyes

wondering

whether the base

of your spine

is disappearing behind

you

and he is here

and he is now

and he is king

and the rest of the week

is yours