Friday, September 7, 2018

Waiting For It By Ezhno Martin

I pass a whore in the hall way
I can tell cause she moves like cold dish water,
her eyes on the chipped paint horizon
and my neighbor's in his underwear in his doorway
eyes betraying that he's praying
for her to come back and stay long enough
for him to fall asleep.

Inside my apartment I quickly lock the door
and throw my coat in the corner
the dim light of one lamp
next to my bed leads me to lie down like a dying moth
and I look past the glass
the filament inside on fire
to the two clean spikes
in my desk drawer

have I drank too much for a shot?
no, not yet

the mixture shouldn't be heavy on the oil slick
could probably split this ten in half
and ride lightening sighs and groans to sleep

But if not
then that's the best part...

the big one is always present
and that encourages my thumb on the plunger
the flame on the spoon
the neck-tie I use to tie off

knowing one day I'll miscalculate
or maybe hit it just right

I lock the door when I do it
because I don't want them to stumble upon me blue
but rather kick in the frame days later to find me gray
the needle in my fingers
or maybe just inches away
like one more would water me back to life

But back to me
in my room

my desk lamp like a search light aimed at my shirtless corpse to be
that's how I feel nowadays like I'm just waiting for it
and I cook it down and pull it up
push the prick into my vein
when the blood's in the chamber
 I pause

not to make a wish
but to see my room clearly one last time

Yea in fact sometimes I even say it
the second after I shoot


ready for just that and nothing else

About Ezhno Martin:

According to Bob Phillips -- Toledo's Best Poet, and an old man who knows every prostitute between Flint Michigan and Cleveland Ohio -- "Ezhno's does what Ezhno does and goes around fucking up everything."

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