For two and a half hours I stared at you,
you sexy white thing. You endless white thing,
you blank, ugly fucking whore
of a blank, white, single screen.
I wonder what you were thinking
while I was tripping over a closet of memories
like a black out at a party
while everyone rummages to smoke outside
in someone else’s shoes.
Like people about to go down in a ship.
My step father rolling his oversized
cotton sleeves in messy pastry mixing up with the
coffee stained back office of his garage and the
coffee in white Styrofoam,
creating a place where none existed before,
but where nothing but smell and longing
are able to say enough in their statement.
There was good in here but it was
only ever enough to keep warm, singly by.
Even the character feels weak and goes head-first
into a plate of glass as some bad homage to something.
Not even the reference seems worth it.
But we do it anyway don’t we?
It’s the only dedicated relationship I have,
so it has to be like this sometimes.
Even when there is nothing to say,
we have to live like this.
I know you don’t like me when I write to Miles Davis,
but I do it anyway.
You know I veer toward a schedule only for you
to smash it into new mosaic.
But we work together somehow.
We block out the blindness,
bad line after cliché after shaky reservation.
We work in record stores and on buses and other random,
Got married back in high school.
Have nothing but boxes of us now.
Boxes and ticket stub match pack haiku’s.
Ann’I still love you now, for every
new white fucking page.