The Night Out

I owe you a night out,
And hey,
I apologize
I’m the one who said
we should drink like
You should see the list
of restrictions I’ve put together
for myself:
I broke all the drinking ones.
Thanks for keeping me
you settled all the bills
and the taxi—that took me home.
So thanks for the night.
I owe you one.

Easter Morning in Zizkov, 1999

Easter Morning in Zizkov, 1999: Staring at the Neighboring Building.

Woke up
hung over
Moan and turn
toward the window.
This bed is level with the window,
a bird’s eye view
into a neighbor’s window.
Windows are just windows
not souls into eyes.
Any bird can view.
I could roll out
of this window,
and fall five
long stories to a quick death.
Five long tales.
It would be easy.

“The fall would be so quick
you probably won’t wake till you hit
the ground,
then it would be
just like a flashlight turning off.”
Marco teased me.
I thanked him for the refreshing
insight about my level window.
My life reduced to
a flashlight.
Something to hit over our heads.

comatose looking at white
lace curtains in the facing window,
neighbor’s window,
building across the street.
Lace curtains looking
fresh and clean
dove like
— not dingy and brown
like my curtains.
We are pigeons.
Pigeons can be doves, ask
Warhol, ask Picasso, ask Matisse.

Dear neighboring building
repainted, and power-washed.
Do you stare at our
a faded lime green,
stained from time
streaked from pollution
old tears of moisture.
Do you see art in our grime?
Finger painting
masterpieces done by cats?

I see your angel
awning hanging out
jutting out like it’s
or art nouveau.
Why bother to guess?

I have a headache from the thinking.
The night before’s drinking.
It’s Easter morning.
Holidays are sudden events.
We colored bird’s eggs with crayons
days ago,
It was already here.

Bird drinks at Feste’s and Rachele
cornered me
made me promise to paint
color crayon to promise
to hide Easter eggs from view
for all the guests.
All those dirty pigeons.

My head
falling from the windows
another morning in Žižkov.

Torn Between Needing

She had a strange evening.
It began hungover, yet relaxed,
because the pills she took last night,
20 to be exact,
didn’t work—

She knew they wouldn’t,
it was a false suicide attempt,
but even playing the role is bad,
and she knows this.

She is not always the confident
she appears to be,
and she doesn’t want to let
everybody know
she is becoming comfortable
with the self-loathing,
it seems to be going

She is tired.

“I’m glad those pills didn’t work.
Those pills.” She said.
She told herself this
because today was beautiful,
in every way-
today she talked to God.
She felt God.

Sleep, need,

she is torn between needing.