The Yolk of the Neighborhood
I was walking in the hot, still LA heat
That blows nowhere, so your own thoughts begin to circulate
And you go mad
And upon walking on some particularly rocky asphalt,
I lost my footing
And hit the back of my head and heard a
And then felt a disgustingly thick serum leak out
Like my head was an egg that had been split open across the ground
Apparently, that was the case
Voyeurs came by to see the twisted visions and words
In the yolk
My subconscious betraying me
While my body stiffened in pain and clothes melted onto the tarmac
Inside the yolk swarmed thoughts and visions about a man
Who had recently rejected me
And the crowd laughed at how that was all that preoccupied my mind
As I lay furious
Hours later, someone from the city came with a
Cleaned up the yolk,
Put it back into my head, and unstuck my clothes that had melted into the sidewalk
And I walked home with a headache
Alive and enslaved again
Afraid of Your Sobriety
For years, I’ve dated addicts—
And have tried nursing them back
To consensual reality,
Although I don’t quite live there myself.
I just figure it’s the morally right thing to do.
But when it comes to you,
I’m afraid of your sobriety.
You see, when you’re drunk,
You’re so fluid, free, warm with your emotions!
But when you’re sober—
You become one of them.
A goddamn square.
Calculated and cold.
And I’m compartmentalized.
It leaves me feeling a bit hurt.
As a result,
I don’t stop you as you reach for beer number 24,
Although I do worry about your physical health.
My fears are more about being around you when you’re sober—
I’m afraid you won’t like me and vice versa.
It’s a weird conundrum to be in.
I don’t like it and no psychologist would agree that it’s healthy.
Then again, I never said anything I did was healthy.
After all, I just get addicted to people that will
Never be addicted to me.
The acute split,
That amputation of your lover
Being sliced from your very being
Fills one with that
Bitter feeling of betrayal
That a newborn must feel
When separated at birth
I walk, no, live life—
Having had relied on “you,”
My rented half,
Whatever your name is.
I may have loved you...
I may have used you...
At this point, I cannot tell the difference
But the pain when you detach is excruciating.
I immediately lose my footing on life.
But somehow, I muster the energy that night
To pull up an app,
Go through my phone numbers,
To shop for another rented half
To fill me up for the evening
Oh, what a meaningless, miserable life
Filled with a recycle bin of rented halves
That depend on me, too.