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mess
they say depressed people should clean their rooms but i can’t bring myself to throw out the trash that he and i made. the takeout containers, the bottles of booze and dirty outfits… my brother is gone now but he was here. for three short and bright days he was here with me and we
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a trade
yes i know i’m killing myself but nothing good comes withoutsacrifice, so now – a wine buzza cigarette pinched between my lipsas the blues fill my earsand the sun rests its hand on my chest.the wind down Overland whistles through the chambers of my heart, and this is the trade: life to escape death for just
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more where that came from
yes, my Athens is my Athens and my LA is your Athens, how long before we get there and will they let us stay? look! my body trembles into poems! about Athens and death and the short dresses of brown women! smoke in the cafe and moonlight on the page. down the way ouzo pours