Travelers Welcome

Travelers Welcome

Sunday, August 12, 2012

T. S. Eliot's Veins

by Jordan Jamison

The apartment festers like open sores on feet, memories of dope itches and milky spoons of diseased liver brown, Coca-Cola brown, everything is brown. I continue to think of you, T.S. Eliot; would you write a poem about the apartment, about working-class Mexican fiends who double as modern day Dantes? Probably not, but my arms hurt. My veins are an adorable apple bruise barely oxidized. I love my veins, always have. Sometimes when I can't sleep and my nose is running and I can hear the water in the wall and the delicious couples screaming at each other out on the sidewalk, I wonder if you love your veins as much as I love mine.

No comments:

Post a Comment