Us two we're done for

The cornet blows deep
where the oleander grows.
You’re breathing
while I’m trying to empty my lungs.

*

Sick, sad ions inside coffee.
This brew’s done for.
This brew’s from four years ago.
This brew contains my vomit.

*

When I talk about Haiti ending,
and you look at me like
you don’t know who I am,
I feel like you should please keep up.

*

One time I stared at the pictures
of little Haitian children covered and swabbed
with blood so real it couldn’t be fake
and there was a small surge, but it was small.

*

Too bad Shauna wasn’t laughing
when she was yelling at me,
exploiting my failures
like they were breaded salmon or something.

*

I watched the castle turn into a hotel.
The school, Olney, lit up with so many whites inside it.
My face frowned and I wanted to find Staci,
run away with her, so we could build cabinets together.

*

Casey’s silence is age getting older.
I know she’s in Farmington somewhere
farming and inching along for now.
I know that our friendship has faded, a little at least.

*

And there was Jeff’s malevolence
slicing down across my cheeks, bones,
inadequacies blown apart by dedication.
And there was Jeff’s best texts, his best phone behavior.

*

I live in an old, converted bread factory.
We cool man we, call it THE BAKERY.
In a story, I get raped in the garage,
and then go to piss in it the next day.

*

Drexel University was built on flames.
So was Jefferson and all the other oppressors.
If I wasn’t older than now I would throw bricks.
If I wasn’t billabong I wouldn’t play along.

*

Bess was leaving for London
and all I could think was
studying schizophrenia in London
is way too schizophrenic for me.

*

At the party Bess touched my thigh,
Nora put burned classical CDs into a boombox,
and Nathalie gave us good directions,
and I, well, I . . . well, I, well:

*

I’ve started smoking outside in the morning again.
Every time I think about it I smile.
I think about the people who think about it too
but really I think about the mushroom kingdoms.

*

Tacked to my wall there’s a list of jobs.
I have applied to two of these jobs.
I have inquired about one but gotten no response.
I have not applied to three of these fucking jobs.

*

Carlos runs a cool house
and Debrah sits next to me.
We’re staring at computer.
Then I drop it like a fucking idiot.

*

Are you saying something?
You can’t tell me nothing.
You can’t tell me nothing.
Dear Christ, Philadelphia, nothing.