I wish
any given cliche
was less useful.
Less of
a semi-holy relic
from a poem
no one recalls
except for that one
live phrase. Less
appropriate in so 
many situations,
and more of a
guaranteed groan
from those who hear it
who then could insist
upon originality
no matter how
inefficient the
subsequent conversation
becomes or how long
it might take 
to say something
as perfect as that
tired spurt of 
fossilized speech 
that everyone 
makes lazy allowance for.
We might have 
to slow down, 
be more precise,
think new, talk
fresh before moving on
to the next chance
to speak and
who could say
what might
come of that?

In addiction 
one may find
both bond 
and bondage
and he worked hard
to maintain both.
through people he saw
daily as well as the ones
passing through, or
just passing. Such
connection is earned, 
no matter what 
the learned and the clean
say, and he did his part:
let them into his home
as far as he could,
paid for all their substances
as well and often as he could —
buying a round
for the house left him
floorbound more than once
but he got up and maintained —
and whenever there was
a less than occasional death
he bowed his head and went back
to the same corners, same stools,
same streets almost at once
to say, “did you hear about…”
and to say, “damn shame” or
“saw that coming…” almost by 
instinct, so easily had things turned
from bondage to bond and back,
the changes almost seamless,
his face hardening from masking
despair with concern, barely
wondering at all after a while
if, when his turn came to be
the subject of the day, he would be
spoken of in the same way. 

In my heart 
(although it’s been years
since my last smoke)

I’m still ending
most conversations
with the thought of the arc
of a flicked spark
— cherry on the end of a butt — 
into a nearby puddle 

which means most of the time
in my heart it’s been raining
and the notion
that such an action is harmful
is less important
that the joy
of the cool it used to represent

whenever I perfectly centered the toss
into the puddle so that it hissed
punctuating the completion
of my every pithy thought

now I’m just
cancerous and failed
wheezing out platitudes

still
that Marlboro scent can
give me heaven
with a death punch
and I miss 
the hiss
the rain
the time when my heart
could hold things

The flavor of how far you have fallen 
is smoky and full, coating the cheeks, 
sticking to the lining of the throat. 

All you can eat turns into what you can stomach,
but you are so unwilling to starve 
that regardless of the rotten tang of it,

you belly up any time you are
the least bit hungry and take in
what you can stand. It is enough

to keep you some sort of alive without
offering any sort of true nourishment.
It’s a taste, a foul taste, but it’s all you have.

A wailing child somewhere
in the neighborhood. How powerful
that sound becomes when it goes on 
for such a long time.

You would think by now
I’d be immune to the slight panic
it induces, it happens so often.
It’s the kid next door, one house

down the hill from my own. Weather’s
been warm enough these days
that with windows open,
what’s been inside all winter is leaking out.

With my windows open as well?
I wonder if I’ve spread any panic
in the neighborhood with my own 
noisy pain? Even a twinge of nervousness

out there might be validating if I knew of it.
When I look out on the street I can’t see
anyone looking back, cocking one ear to
any sound — even the baby’s gone silent.

We are all exhausted
from avoiding 
teeth. Teeth in how
we live, how we watch
for death. The car stalls
at the intersection, 
teeth loom on both sides.
The bills sever us from
a sense of security the way teeth
tear into flesh. Stained teeth glimpsed
behind apparently sweet lips
warn of duplicity. How we fear 
being bitten, how everything 
appears suspiciously vampiric
in this dimming light.