poem: one more for the cynic in me
written: 4:13 p.m. on Tuesday, Nov. 21, 2006

One More for the Cynic in Me

There is a question and you
don�t know the answer, if there is
even an answer, why you are
expected to answer. It rings hollow
in your head, repeats itself over and over,

and it�s the only thing you hear until
he tells you it doesn�t matter. Before he
does that, he looks at you, intense like a
feral tiger, blowing smoke into nothingness, and asks,
What is it that you want from me?

A question after a question. You have a
reply this time. You tell him, heart on the table,
I want the ashes from your cigarette,
Your emptied cocktail glass,
The contact of the guy who sold you ecstasy.

He promises to buy you a cocktail dress one day,
grabs your arm and pulls you close, you feel
his words against your ear. There is no other sound.
It doesn�t matter that you don�t have
an answer, he says. It�s about

carpe diem, and per quid pro quo,
You wake up with a start and find yourself
alone. Just you and a very big bed, and the
lingering headiness of the wispy sensation
of last night�s dream.

November 21, 2006

before sunrise // before sunset


Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010