the writer disappears

Staring at yourself in the hologram,
you bend your head a little, change
the angle of your looking


barely, and the scene, the
shrouded blanket-covered
figure


late night traffic of partygoers
going home, and third shift
coming in, missed



the jumper ,contemplating
the angle of the water. he took out his
cell phone and delivered a missile
to the one he hated most.

second shift took the train
back to their empty apartments
bleak streets with last minute appointments
tumbled across like fall leaves, hurrying.

he called her crying about losing everything
except the will to suicide. she had no time
she had to be with her own son, so he told her
how he was sorry that he'd loved her
wrongly. he pulled her heart from the confines
of suck it up, did a li'l jig then
stuck it back inside. passion was playing
his tune, he never understood timing






























()(_)(_)








so her son reaches out
and drags him by the hair
lost and vampiric, we don't know
why death won't take him.
rolling a jeep down a hillside
should be enough . but now he's
hoofing it, got a sabotage to catch up with.
the jack daniels rots in the kitchen cabinet.
she resolves that to love her
is to crack open at your core.















8()(&&


















he said he loved her
and he believed it.
shells and trinkets fell from
his pockets. he bent to pick
them up and she receded
to the upper landing. above him
she dropped small beads of sweat
and rosin onto his head. he saw her
again, past where they stopped
touching, and he loved her.
he saw her again and stopped
loving her a moment later.
but he loved her. then came a new room.
this room he loved as well. sealed
lips and rushing water. lighting candles

they crawl up under the cloverleaf exit
rise of concrete, up at the very top right below the
girders of the freeway, the concrete levels off,
and you have used a couple large moving boxes
made out of cardboard, and some blankets
and a pillow of old shirts in a shopping plastic bag


you welcome them, newest citizens
of the underpass. she is older than you expected
from the way he'd talked earlier. he's younger
than your son. they huddle against the cold
that has run through their story
since they began to write it. you can tell
they're used to explaining so you ask
no questions. she leans against the concrete
the angle is like the recliner in your apartment
and you find yourself wanting a remote.
he slides into the crook of her arm
they curl into do not enter. you decide
to take a walk.









































*()*&



the partygoers are coming home now.
heel click a bit wobbly, ties a bit loose.
she stumbles over smashed metal
jumbled keys and cyanide laced computer chips.
the dangling legs from before
aren't there anymore. not that she'd noticed.
he clutches her around the waist to keep
her from falling and they both twist
to the ground, landing in a tangle of crinoline
and silk. when they look up, his legs
have reappeared, sighing, a pendulum
in the wind.












Not just her lime hair,
itches like ice cream dripped
on skin. Not just the
parable of the poison dart umbrella,
she knows if she keeps writing,
the story won't end. so she keeps writing.
he's taking the pills again, making erowid
calculations. he's throwing the pills
into his briefcase to take into his next
best life. the path is opening. the light
comes in rays around the cracks
your typical fear fraught door assaulting
scene . their color resembles her hair
she falls asleep and the world does not.