Some days I will find myself walking down the street dreaming of her; sucked in by sadness sucked out of her mouth in a kiss that reeks of whiskey.  All the times we held on crying, fucking, her holding me in thin, frail arms. It seems like somebody else’s life, definitely not mine. There is a thing growing on the inside, starting way down in the pit of me, hollowness eating away like cancer and the soles of my shoes are thin- thinner with every paycheck spent on dreams I saw in a magazine promising to fix the solitude that I have become with lipstick and diamonds.  Thin souls have erased before, days before the hotel, before the fire, before when she tapdanced,  I sang Judy Garland songs and wore the fancy hats she made me.  In bed she would talk about dreams and stadiums and old-time burlesque, the moon was just a sliver in the window above our heads, or when it was full, the soft glow falling on the cluttered floor, that floor where we knelt cried sat made love.  We could not find the time to make it to the bed or undress.  I remember to forget her moans as they repeat like techno or a skipping record in my head.   wondering what happened where it went wrong when did everything shatter like candy glass and who was the untrained stuntman that brought you here? Was his name Jimmy, Ricardo Montobon or George W. Bush? You don’t know who to blame because it's not your fault and blaming her is too painful, the weight of accusation an added pressure, threatens to rupture the tumor, making your whole vessel a toxic, necrotic mass. Still you need someone to blame so you blame the Bush administration, which may be the most accurate, sensical place for sorrow, woe and frustration. If they hadn’t made life so difficult; If they had let you get married; If they hadn’t started that ridiculous war on March 20th, 2003, you never would have had the argument about going to the protest that started a new chapter of the vicious cycle called your life your mistakes your truths your only want is a tuna fish sandwich the type they used to make at that diner on 3rd. you would go there in 4ams they were open 24-7 and you would go after dancing, walking, drinking, talking. She was your world the stars sun universe revolved in her head a celestial luminary she was the rye bread the carbohydrates that filled you. You wonder what happened, when she lost her magic or maybe you just stopped seeing it. Was it when she kissed the other man? When she began to talk about getting rid of her breasts, it reminded you too much of chemotherapy, your mother's battle. But your mother is not the point and neither is your ex. The point is you, desperately alone, pounding the pavement, pounding out your sadness, loss and anger trying to find peace and stability in this world that shakes like an isotope rattles like a smoker’s lungs. You seek stillness in a stranger’s arms because you cannot find it in your own you seek stillness in genitals, smoke and grain alcohol you seek stillness in the concrete , glass and granite of the buildings surrounding you seek stillness in the moss, mud and redwoods above you seek stillness in touch and in solitude and the stillness will not come you shake like jelly like rehab like something you order with your onion rings at Toni’s #1 on Guintoli Lane like the woman struck by seizure at the coffee shop were you come to pound out your thoughts on laptop fingers hitting keys like shoes hitting pavement their soles too thin so you feel pebbles beneath you your soul too thin so you feel the person next to you her soul overpowering and seeping into you and you want to you try to reach out and touch finger tips with yours stroke hair touch lips, ears the small of her back but it’s too late and besides

Some days are just like that.

©Harvey Rabbit 2005