somewhere else

reading Bukowski puts me in a mood,
one of those sons of bitches.
listening to Isaac Hayes’ first album,
the soul soaked
aaaaaaaaain Bourbon
takes me

which means nothing to you, I know.
you’ve been out the front of the house
attaching purple streamers
aaaaaaaaato the fence, because
it’s your mother’s
I’ve been lying on the couch
thinking I could be

the streamers wouldn’t go where you wanted.
“the wind,” you said,
aaaaa“kept blowing them off”.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa— shit like this,
the incongruence of reality
& what we’ve hoped for,
it hits you hard.
you cry everything,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayour face
turns to plasticine.

I hold you. I don’t say anything.
but I understand
how much it matters.
we spin a tight cocoon

& wait to see
what happens.

Published in Poetry New Zealand 40, March 2010.