Aroma
Once a breath so close
I could smell the carbon.
The beloved was bedside
laced with rain water.
Leaking from the ceiling
was the odor of outside.
Gasoline, fog, moist air.
I never knew how thin the plaster
was, or how many drops it takes
to break the ceiling fan.
It has not fallen yet,
but it hangs like a loose thread
from underwear, torn
from tumbling all last night.
Despite the storm, we decided
to drench our coats in the city.
The show was sold out, but we
snuck in with the smokers.
The show was about
the moon’s affair with America,
how it shines on us a little longer
each night. The show was good,
my beloved said. He wept
on the way home. His tears
were denser than water,
they flooded the puddle
that carried his body away
from my bed. He left
a stench, an odor of moon,
a distant breath.
Empty Orchestra
When the dimmed light glimmers
down on stage, the glances of glee
club comrades recreate the relic
clipped compound called Karaoke.
This is Thursday night, Club Incognito,
where liquor is lusted like men.
This frigid November weather, assuaged
by suede coats and sweaters.
I am a stranger, alone,
but tonight I’ll sing whatever song
brings me to a bed I’ve never been
in. Madonna, Mariah, no Michael
must make magic move the mic
to my mouth. As I step on stage,
I shake my shoulders and sing
about how much I want to love you.
A roaring reaction, but no suitor
in sight. The sound starts to simmer
down as the racket of the restless
renegades return to their routine.
The bartender behind the counter
detects my defeat. He gives me
another, on the house, almost
whispers, Karaoke means empty
orchestra in English. I hear
this Japanese silence.
The ice in my whiskey
is water. I chug its sour residue.