January 11, 2012

throw him a curveball







Late at night
when streetlights silhouette inebriated youth
I sit alone in my living room
under my favorite blanket
riding cotton waves with flattened palms
like grease traversing a rose petal.

Sure, sometimes it’s lonely
sometimes it’s sickening
and sometimes it’s just another night alone.

But every now and then
I hurl the blanket to the floor
pop open a bottle of wine
and hunch over a legal pad
clutching a pen that secretes blood.

Blood as black as ink.


cliff weber (Santa Monica, CA, 1986)

3 comments:

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