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gingerbread tin candle
"gingerbread tin candle"
A spent book of matches lays in my kitchen trash can.
it reminds me of an old friend i saw yesterday.
he still looks the same, maybe taller, and he shaved
off his mowhawk, but i could tell him from anywhere.
he threw himself away;
modern paintings and sculputres that he once
made are sporatically placed through his house.
they are remnants of a lost passion that used to be his
he's been in and out of rehab, and got kicked out of his
art school; he's become a waste of paint.
the hospital nurses know him by first name basis from
his overdose visits.
he threw himself away.
i used the last match in the match book that mingles with
kitchen trash to light a candle.
all i can see when i look at the flame is my hand
holding a tarnished spoon above it that bubbles on the
surface of the poison it holds.
my mind is frightening.
the full needle reminds me of a certain muse, a certain
god that is merely a man but still, so much more.
he reminds me that this bed i'm laying in is made for two
and that there is always room for poetry.
last night i told my baby i couldn't write anymore, but she
said to do it anyway.
she told me to never stop writing.
so as i extract this from my brain and it leaks from
this thick black ink, my hand runs over it:
sealing it in the paper, rubbing off on my hand.
and i wonder --
lefty's curse or writer's burden?
my words will always seep in through my skin like
ink wether true or false or biased or neutral.