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M.Demyan is currently chopping wood in the green mountains of Vermont. He has one poetry manuscript looking for a home and is also working on a literary novel. Co-editor of DenimSkin. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bedford

                      

       ‘I’m at the Abbey’  

‘That’s so close’

‘So come on overrr :)’

                      

Bedford

I’m your slave tonight

to guise in new age tribes

under the popcorn smell of flowers & rubber

in bloom beneath the bridges of Brooklyn

 

Bedford

is painted up and down

with hipster pool halls

with tattoo junkies

in an elevatedcultureoff,

      emptying their baggies

      in bathrooms

      glossed with graffiti & piss

    we dance behind

    photo booth curtains

    wallpaper our face

    all over the place

 

Bedford

I’m ragged in flannel

prisoner to the lipsticked collar

held captive by my pistol

Wednesday

 

six thirty am she wakes up

to use the toilet, cannot

close the bathroom door

seven thirty am he

wakes up to use the toilet

back to sleep his mind

oscillates eight thirty am she is

motionless   still   in bed

the sun rises higher

starring through the split

drapes he turns over

drapes his arms across the body

she is turned away

from him he kisses her morning

rolls onto his back investigating

the nothing of his phone she makes

silent sounds draping a leg

over him he wants coffee now

it’s nine am both still in bed

somewhat reluctant but whatever no plans

it’s fine finally awake

she is hungry wanting coffee

he wants sex he says something

about it she says something she’s funny

he is a flower rising to dress

back to her she calls him

back to bed

facing the window so bright

it’s bright

“did you finish watching?”

  “I did.”

“what happened at the end?”

  “someone else became the killer

   the man was turning into

   something…I don’t know”

“weird.”

he goes out with a kiss

she puts on her clothes

in the grocery store

he collects

one red pepper

one avocado

one package of 8 flour tortillas

descending the staircase

with books layered in a shirt

a sweater a sarong tied on

like a cape in the coffee house

he expires his gift card on decaf lattes

enjoying the cold

outside, which was missing him

it finally felt appropriate

to walk smiling to himself

open door climb stairs boots off open door

finding her on

the couch writing   a paper   breakfast

made and served they eat

smiley wonderful lovers

where people claimed impossible

lunatics forged into the void

more paper after kisses and dishes rinsed

he looks for work

unsuccessfully makes phone calls

thinks of what poems would be

written when in time there is

poetry to think of he crawls

into her arms three p.m. what is found?

his feared emptiness he swims on

conflicted hapless   sorry

unclear with the mail that comes she coos

“everything will be

fine my little fish”

they roll and laugh and squeeze it’s four p.m.

he goes climbing

she goes yoga

she walks he takes train

it is further

it is a disappointment sauna

out of order sweats

90 minutes of spine stretching a fad

she says will die he climbs v5 first day

back after 38

trots off happy making a call

to the man to make it green

his train is crowded

she showers dresses

losing a sock walking slow

but gets there

he is waiting

outside in a feeling of alien observing

people on their winter walks

home off to dinner or to lover or wife

just walking home

to someone or no one at all

they meet 6:27pm for Thai food

green curry red curry dumplings they share

under the music

incongruous to the atmosphere a man

disturbed:

     “you kids better hope WALT WHITMAN

      doesn’t beat the SAY ANYTHING because he’ll

      never beat the AMERICAN FASCIST”

food arrives they eat they pay they agree

on cold walk home holding close

talking about differences in culture and time

in Costa Rica he thinks

it is finally cold again

stairs door stairs door couch

they study Spanish waiting for the man

they supplement they eat a cookie

to bide time he undresses nine p.m.

he goes to shower

only for the man to respond

he dresses clothes back on

he goes six blocks

for cash withdrawal she reads

a book looks for a big job abroad

to save the world she saves him

returning with sixty dollars he showers

finally now long hot distracted she climbs

towards the bedroom like a mouse

or cat or the honey bee

under the deep blankets illuminated

face from laptop light he drops towel

not sexy practical for sleep

swims in holds close eyes underwater

like anytime she leans in and breathes

“X-Files?”

he decides he likes the name Fox

but not the name Apple

thinks he is a wolf but really a dog

don’t fall asleep don’t fall asleep don’t fall asleep

“are you asleep?”

she’s awake now 11pm

she turns over the episode is done

she moves as he touches moves closer

they have sex just to please him

leaving a room dark at midnight

and the drugs never come.

                     < BACK TO POETRY

MIKE DEMYAN

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