these living room acoustics pay homage to a silence

but it works no wonders for your raspy voice.

i thought i saw you draped across a stairwell;

i know i saw you drunk across the floor.

this new carpet hasn't done you any good

and your apple-fresh breath pumps out nothing.

the only interior decorating you left depicted jesus.

you said, "there's no way he'd want me for a sunbeam."


fresh diseased blood baptizes the microphone

hanks of hair shroud sharp unshaven angles in history

and the only songs that ever rang true

were the sort of sounds that only rang in you


"come on over and shoot the shit," you ordered

blindly, i obeyed, fraying hems of lines crossed

caring some sort of you-but-me manifesto;

carrying straight style - we followed you to that greenhouse.

these roman blinds pinch your lungs in shades of blue

and this glass-encased tar hasn't done you any good.

the only interior decorating you left depicted seattle.

you said, "there was some comfort in being sad."


they found you the next day face-down in a puddle of endorphins.