Summer 2010, #1.

Stealing smoke from the angered.

I fell into some scratches while
stealing all his cigarettes and 
smoking them, one by one, as he
never thought to look my way;
right, left, everything in autumn colors.
With his right hand on the television set, 
the palm face down, nails exposed,
he screamed until his throat gave out,
and turned to see my empty space.
I hid in the cracks in the driveway,
his smoke now in my mouth,
his silly words in my shaking frame.
Laughter never came so easy as 
when I fell into some city places
even the anarchist didn't find
in all the nights of false rioting,
in all the days of counting bullets.
I burned all of his maps, all of his plans,
and all of the poetry that lined the walls,
until all that was left of partnership was
a dirty outline, a confidant's mistake.
I'm still down in the pavement,
I'm still laughing out loud.