...

so it comes to this then ,
the three-week long russian roulette - real bullets and everything :
you win, sleepless nights for all of us worrying about
all the things your disabled mind can't see. 

in a week we'll know if raped and maimed you'll be found
on La Cienega with no ID (because it wouldn't have occured to you
to take any with you) ,
___having sold two of your wheelchairs for $20 to buy a pack of cigarettes. 

either that or you'll prove us all wrong. live comfortably
for the rest of your life as you trample our memory
underfoot and wheel , spit on our phone numbers
and pray cancers into our bones.

all this is happening all i can think is how relived i am to be this tired.
nowadays either i drop from fatigue the minute i arrive home
or i'm awake until i drink myself to stumbled sleep.
__i'd feel guilty if i could- i tried but couldn't muster it.
a lifetime of guilt grows stale eventually.
finally, scabbed and painlessly falls off (
a dark petal of someone softer i once was.
___(and now i am all bone and no skin:

you have done this to me, to us.
you've made us all lesser monsters in your shadow ;
uncaring, cruel, unaffected.

i'm planning a big poem for you. our whole history, one long poem;
but this isn't the time for it.
___i have to wait and see if i'm writing it as your eulogy first.
(but it's alright, i know just the picture to use as the backdrop :
the one of you i keep




i don't even feel like writing.
screw this.