Brain Cocktail / Cigarette Halo

I. Brain Cocktail

I cannot pluck the stars from
the sky; or anywhere not even
off a dead pine tree
or scraped with a fingernail
off a notebook full of
science notes, historical
facts, algebra – it really isn’t
good for anything, is it? –,
phone numbers, stock margins.

My head aches from the back where
I nicked the wall — an
accident, one of many; even
greasing the joints with vodka,
red wine loosens nothing but
flesh, and stars I did not see.
I close my eyes. This is not my home.

II. Cigarette Halo

A sprinkle of ash
along the ground
violent crumbs
of indigestion
or belches of
confession repressed
of lime green walls
TV’s on stilts
polka dot paradise
replaced with
lost names
on crinkled
yellow paper
stuffed in shoe boxes
under the bed.