my pink body in the broken
yolk of pale blue morning, weaving threadbare
and wobbling odd. these feet fall
from a terrified height, inches
from river valley slap to summit. what
kind of life is this, to suck greedily
at the edge of atmosphere? my friend
she has paper bag lungs, i stood with her
under awning in the soothing roar of a yawning
Tennessee thunderstorm. we sipped bad
beer from brown bag, paper, and imagined
ourselves. a man we did not know, though
maybe he knew us, sprinted on cardboard
legs to a waiting car, rumbling. the car
and the thunder. he pantomimed
reaching for a waistband’d gun, and we all
laughed at our shared difficulty
in breathing. we are companions!
travelers through space and time! how could we be
anything but good friends?
when i walk through Fall, wishing i was
in it, i hear the rasp of leaves, fallen
from space. i hear the paper bag
lungs of my friend who once sipped bad
beer with me in a flat state. we filled
with effervescence in attempt at calling
forth mountains to that paper plane.
what kind of a life is this? another friend
of mine, me—the self-proclaimed friendless!!—he lives
only occasionally. i hiked a mountain in Alaska
with him several years back. we spent hours
yanking ourselves up that mountain, my pink body
dripping in yolk, to pitch our tents
in sprawling emerald alpine valley, and smoke
cheap heroin off tinfoil. the sunset was
that Summer night magnificent!
the heroin made me laugh and made him
agitated. now he sometimes sleeps
in the back of truck, sometimes on a couch, maybe
on a park bench, if the rain isn’t too
insistent. is this living? he still likes
heroin and tin foil; i like to put tin foil in the oven,
to catch melting cheese as it sighs
featureless into browning bread.
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