The Finer Arts

the woman with my ring, she rang
just to say,
“Goodnight.
  I know you’re working hard these days.
  Everything will be alright.”

silencing the phone insight
it’s so easy now to lie
when the face I face is reflective screen
and I key in my reply

and so where were we? oh yeah,
that’s right: drowning in this dive
sat on a lackluster lacquer bench
where no friendly eyes dare pry

beneath some halos of halogen
we speak of ancient psalms
and disemboweled mammalian forms
you know just how to turn me on

and in dim light, it’s so clear
how stranger is the problem where
we both want the same thing
we both want to fuck
it all up:

every picture perfect memory
the holidays along Atlantic coasts
the anniversary in Old San Juan
arguing who loves who the most

they’re all picture perfect memories
but I need something more
a photograph to hold onto
like a God damned whore


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