November 22nd is the easiest anniversary
to remember.
The Satin Saddle.
Michael Bolton.
Billy Joel.
Ford Taurus.
Fucking in a cheap room
thick with Benson & Hedges smoke.
The Song of Solomon is our book.
God, yes.
The King James version.
I was a lake inky with night.
He got to the bottom,
fucked me with sobs.
I sacrificed my menstrual blood soaked jeans
to the Sonoran Desert.
There was no particular god to pray to,
no particular destination.
The ring I pawned for $50
was the least fake thing
I have ever owned.
A tone was set that day.
I’m still living that day.
I’m purple in hue.
The purple is not pleasant.
It’s the purple of a killing storm,
not the soft purple of the sweetest
blossom in a poet’s prized garden.
I sling words like slugs.
I want them removed
but there are always more,
obscene jewels all over my body.
Candor is called for.
I have an exacting muse.
I crumble in irregular intervals.
The death is never over.
Die dying dead buried resurrected.
I’m too goddamn lazy for this gradient.
Lead me to a kind plateau.