second to the right

cracked mirror, incessant
vibrations from his drums
holding breath to realize
what it might feel like
to really, truly break

but she'd never die.
"it's theoretically impossible,"
he'd say, hands crossed in thoughtful união,
like a spanish dancing of the honeybees;
"you'd pass out before you'd die,"
but all she's thinking is
one
two
three
count to ten, and it will be over
not suicide - not a pathetic attempt
at attention,
but a scientific experiment,
a surgery gone awry,
the attachment phase of
connecting sewing thread
to the dissolved bacteria in your skin

and maybe for a second he got serious, you'd dream in your head: maybe he'd say this -

"honey, i understand. if you want to sacrifice yourself for the betterment of society, i'll be standing there right alongside you, like helen keller's hand to helen keller's mind," (but there he goes again, slipping into the pretentiousness of hipster-headed, pbr-infested, ginsberg- and keruac-reading minds) "i'd play that song at your funeral, too."

but when you slip out of an ethereal state of mind
all you see is his cigarette hanging half out of mouth
ass planted in big, lush kissing lips,
playing with the loose skin around the image
of vonnegut's puckering anus:

some would call it a star.

a tribute to best friends, vrs. 1

of accountability:
that time you sat, cross-eyed, limber,
with a dark ale and a premium roast in either hand,
singing the blues with your electric guitar
thumbing the melody with your ring finger
and forming the chords with your big toe

smiling at me, and back again to yourself,
and sometimes at your cup of coffee,
which narcissistically said:
"caution,
handle with care.
i'm hot"

i knew what was going through your head.
that one time, you spent hours upon hours with your head bowed in meditation.
i could hear you, whispering
silently as the golden rays rose above your head,
with praise, praise, praise
to whatever at the time you deemed immortal.

you were only tainted by
the little pieces of white
powder dancing around
your nose.

on your bookshelf, a guide to mycology;
in your stereo, the newest crystal castles
or maybe it was the newest michael franti
or maybe it was beethoven, mozart, debussy

maybe it was bessie, one arm hanging out of a window,
letting the heat engulf her with particles of sweat,
enjoying the smell of blooming may apples
for the very last time;

you looked like that.
close to death, and yet so close to
the beauty of life that it would
be impossible
to think
of
anything
else