Down under the house, I am not a person, but a temporary ghost.
I’m smoking my useless time. This space feels like a bunker’s tomb.
Thoughts blurry in my mind’s eye, I wrestle with my own mind.
I’m a little high, I say to no one, and daydream of an earlier timeline.
She locked the door and then she smiled. My feelings were wild.
A heightened shirt, fallen pants, we rolled around in the naked dance.
They banged against the door because we’re fucking on the bathroom floor.
“It’s my party, I’ll do what I want” she said right before she yelled, “OH FUCK!”
There was no kiss as we depart and a guy shoves past me with a loud fart.
She vanished into the drunken crowd. Everyone was talking a little too loud.
And as I fixed the belt around my thin waist, my thoughts return me to my empty place.
Consider Him a Soiled Item
Rats in the trees, birds on the ground
Smoke in the air, silence abounds
I open my lungs on a gray clouded, sunny day
Thinking about drugs & money
In affectionate ways
More Garbage today
I find a staple with my foot
Don’t have it, but could use some ecstasy
I understood finiteness of youth
Mostly I sit around my place
With the Grim Reaper and the grind
Outside gazing upon the blurry tree
Is it it or is it me
Dry leaves blowing upwards on this autumn day
Turns the sky all sorts of colors beside gray
I use to be impatient for my turn
Perhaps I’ll be more eloquent stuffed in an urn
Smile Through It
Blood on the handle
Into the camera
Michael Duke is a writer living in greater Los Angeles.