conner,
your art in your face,
you’re a jackass
and don’t sit here on a bench
where any of us have sat,
through countless puffs of smoke
from cigarettes that taste old
in young mouths,
like your masterpiece,
what I call s**t.
brett,
your art like you don’t know where you’re going,
and I sadly believe
I’ve been there on days when it wasn’t raining.
that silver eye on the wall
and conner says, behind a cigarette,
that someone is watching us now.
I laugh,
you don’t because you know
you know it’s true,
and I realize that’s what you wanted:
someone to watch, like you watching me
tell brick walls about my addictions
in spray paint mist whispers.
you watch quiet, wonder at my nakedness
in words. you have to turn away
and expose yourself as well.