Wednesday, October 12, 2011

second or third hand

I keep drug addict hours. When the sun is out my eyes are blank, half-grey, and surrounded with sweat. My nails are kept long to remind myself I am scratching at the surface. My fourth or fifth borrowed car collects parking tickets in front of my building. I found myself standing alone on the corner two nights ago. The power was out so I could see the stars for the first time; the first time from this spot. I yelled and shook and surprised a stranger that wasn't there when I opened my eyes. I take my glasses off when I smoke those menthols my roommates scatter around. I trace a tag on the ground with one of my bare toes, skipping over the a in the middle. The money is all gone. Yawns bookend floods of creativity and resentment. I find churches to say I used to visit, forge receipts for tithes I make in my head, and keep the pastor's card in my wallet. My phone battery dies every twenty minutes. That is why I keep missing these calls. I write the phone number to the house I grew up in on all these liquor store receipts and but them in a green whiskey bottle.The hall closet holds a wedding dress and two vacuum cleaners. They have all been used once. Waves of sleep crash into the building. Sometimes I can stay up long enough to catch the last light go out. Then the hallway is dark. All of my furniture comes from a sober living house a few blocks over. It all has to be changed when they get a new addict. The manager gives me a heads up of what will be on the curb when. I got a necklace that way once. It was taped to the underside of a desk. It has the name of a gentleman on it. I got his desk when he couldn't take it anymore and stood on his chair with rope. I didn't get his chair. I have my own.