where you landed
you sipped white-chocolate mocha lattes
and smoked camel #9's and checked your myspace
every hour. you owned two ounces of sour diesel
and three prada bags. you explored subway tunnels
in high heels and ate $74 fusion sushi meals
with a fork. i wrote a story about you
but you said your life deserved more
than a story. you said your life required
the mona lisa or a porno flick. my story
was illegible code to you. you believed
in gucci sunglasses and cosmopolitans
and social anarchy the same way
i believed in red bull and ritalin
and plot-drive. you didn't even drive
your dad's bentley properly. don't think i forgot
the night we raced to jersey for that shrooms deal
our pockets stuffed with your birthday cash
and flew off that knoll at 92 mph
with the radio blasting death metal,
the wheels twirling like windmills.
in one or two suspended moments
it was obvious you'd never change or even
stay the same. every fucked-up day with you
was a porno flick about the mona lisa.
and you know what? i miss you
and i hope you still fly.
sunrise in your bathroom, as usual
i'm sick of these re-run fucks. i'm sick
of the 21st century cartoons you watch.
i'm sick of this same bathroom and the way
it makes you yawn every time. so
i ask you to stab me. you grin your bruised teeth.
i'm not joking. you lean into my palms and i catch you
like the flu. "oh boy!" i say and point
at the freakish sunrise dragging a 30% discount
onto the ceiling. "another day," you say.
i shove you and open the window. yes,
another voided day. on the ledge i prepare to jump
or fall. but you plug up my eyes with your face.
"stab me," you say.
About the author:
D.C. Porder is pursuing his BA in creative writing at The New School. He has no plans for the future. His closest friends are imaginary and his favorite food is Red Bull. Spy on him at www.dcporder.blogspot.com.
© 2011 Word Riot