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Hooks
"lighters tend to walk away
with people, Alex."
there is a pause
"let's say our name at the
end of every sentence
when we speak, Alex."
-I'll try, Alex.
we have the same
name. she likes that.
it is her hook into my skull.
it is smoky chess and tug of war.
strength. strategy.
we must know each other
conquer each other
it is hard to see that when you are
stoned.
harder to see when you are
not.
we all hook each other to play
social.
there are people
strangers and friends
on mushrooms, on ecstasy,
of course on THC
and on other chemicals,
the lingo of which
will date too quickly
to immortalize
in ink.
they're a part of society. this
society. tin bomb shelters
from the conquest.
despite extensive small talk, I
really can’t tell how high they are.
or who's winning. or if anyone
wins.
in general, the room is
lighter-spark yellow.
my lighter
stolen, I figure,
maybe lost to the clutter-décor.
cavemen did not have this problem
upon domestication of fire:
“who has a lighter?”
what a sophisticated problem.
Alex and her friend
go outside to smoke
cigarettes, and some people
smoke inside anyway.
move on,
on to new people.
heavy and empty,
their talk is
cage-like
lead.
"how are you"
"I haven't heard a word out of you."
"how are you"
“how are you”
I can't tell
how I am
nor anything else.
the way I sound, look,
my eyes...
but Bridget says,
based on seconds of nothing,
"you're a really nice person."
Rastaman tells me, though
I don’t believe him about the first part,
"she's a lesbian for sure." and
"there's too much dick in here."
I remember being in my
often empty backyard
of my rarely empty house
sucking off cigarettes and
brown-gray coffee
like teenagers do,
looking for inspiration
on who I ought
to be.
how did I end up
here with the street-hip
socialites of this building,
where trendy books,
semi-exotic candles,
strings of sky light
on the wall, and
my new walking lighter
all bear silent witness
to silent parties?
an announcement:
"you guys can
drink
the
beer.
that's what it's there for."
a rumble through the door
from the porch.
"is your full name Alexander?"
-my birth certificate just says Alex, Alex
"guess my full name, Alex"
-I don't know, Alex…
hurt silence
-Alexandria?
the hook
hooks deeper
Eric is here
dressed, inexplicably,
in a suit. He
does not know why
either. but he believes in it’s
cool unique (attention-hungry)
virtue.
"would I be a martyr
if I die?"
-you mean when you die
hurt realization
-you would be a martyr
for suits
for the 40s
for blue Christmas lights as normal lights
for matches on the coffee table
for unread books
for smoking on the porch
for "fuck it - I'll smoke where I want."
for a simple mess on the floor
for the artistry of pipe and bong glasswork
it all has worth.
Everything in her
apartment, number seven,
a result of so many
nothings.
a television turns on
it says:
nevertheless
most of the mass
in an atom
is in the nucleus.
the electrons are,
by comparison,
just bits
of
fluff.
atoms are mainly
empty space.
matter is composed
chiefly
of
nothing.
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KALOPSIA
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