whether or not

Every morning

theres’s a woman

pruning bush, or

a bush pruning

woman, whether or not

either is real to me

it’s real to her,

that rose bush

pruned, green grass

now rising wet

in the morning dew

of chimney’s now

smoking, standing

in line at the DMV

with the DUI

unpaid, scratching lotto

old men lifting hats

scratching heads,

wondering like children

where all that hair

goes when it falls out

and if there’ll be

enough water

for the grass, in

the coming July drought,

no matter, still

does the woman prune

as the old me croon—

each mourning.

Kyle’s Camel

Kyle’s

Camel

cigarette

smoke

lingers in the air

creeping in my window

wishing me to dare

take another drag

see what you’ve been missing

though if I did decide

to have another kissing

I’d like to think

it would be mid winter

jangling down the streets

of New York City banter

admiring sleepy windows

with a stranger I barely know

after leaving the Wreck Room

now long since closed

and wondering if she feels

the same way I do

taking a long hot drag

while

trying to seem cool

knowing nothing about her

yet desperately wanting to

and they would taste like Brooklyn

they would be Pall Mall Menthol

crisp and clear and clean

like ice on the verge of thaw

we’d be cracking up.

the polarity between real life and a college town.

I miss my former self.

A chatter-box of complaint.

Endless questions with premature answer.

Horny and mad.

Full of flowery language.

Undefined.

Chain smoking under the gun.

I miss my former self.

Like an old friend.

Like a past lover.

Like a finished book.

Like a sprained ankle.

Like a cavity.

Like film.

I miss my former self.

Arrogant.

Brooding.

Self-deluded.

Know-it-all.

Audacious.

Jerk.

I miss my former self.

Like turning 13.

Like watching Fox and Friends.

Like a one night stand.

Like romanticism.

Defined.

No longer smoking, still under the gun.

It’s the polarity between real life and a college town.