Dear you,

I’m walking past a heavyset young woman smoking. It smells so sweet. She’s checking her phone and inhaling. It’s a familiar position to me. It’s one I’ve had myself. Lean against a building and be in that world. Important and driven. I guess I’ve been flitting around lately. A quick photograph to go with a few lines of a poem. A penny on a dirty carpet with black fuzzies on it. A deep forbidden kiss on lips burgundy sweet and licked with death. I don’t know what I want. Just to sit in this chair and know I’m ok. I’m just making the slashes on the paper earth that I’m making. How are you? Do you want to go home with the bartender? Do you want to buy a house and never think about the past again? Do you own a cat? Do you know what you’re doing to take care of it? Is your pen tired like mine? I’m a Motown record. I’ll be dead Thursday. Well, I hope not. LA looks like a Hollywood tan I’ve never known. A black summer night over lights and city. Cars and crowds. I guess I’m going with my wife to write poems and see if anyone calls me beautiful. I hate this beat. Am I run over by the traffic, put the tears on this page, the life of one man stabbing through his neck to get to the blood of love I miss my mom. God, you look like invisible glitter and this makes me sit and praise your name because I felt my tears and knew every drop was an old man’s old coat. Dear you, dear you who I don’t know, thanks for listening to my prayers. Thanks for listening to me whine all the while needing to dine. I’m tired of that stroke of sun. So long. Stay you.

Daniel J. Flore III