Cells, Weightless

MiPOesias, August 2010

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Short, small, anemic or so
he looked; he ate well, though, chained
his nose to his ear,
blared Heavy Metal and told
many tall tales
of his band Firestarter
and his white magic girl
who thanked him in her
CD booklet, he spent
hours every night talking
to no one but
a dial tone trying
to prove his point.

Once he returned
he’d get high
on butane fuel which was
intense and quick and freakish
and then he’d set
the wall afire and laugh
as flames expired untraced;
he was high
that night he wandered
campus wildly, passed
me and just
collapsed mid-stride, lifeless.