East Bay Barrack

and everywhere I have trailed, lights up

was sure, he also followed paths beyond

on craigslist I found listed there--based

our Jingle Town warehouse reserves of

a classified stranger--he to me at lease.

in the kitchen, stationed each night by the window opened to the traffic of I-880

smoking Drum cigarettes he rolled while talking over $5.99

bottles of Bolla merlot breaking the evening news on our dot.com jobs

--and, hey did you see the latest episode on IceBox.com--

sketching out our predicaments, looking on top the counter in brackish agreements to

cleaning up the dishes piled, and plans for what would really make us happy, without

options, and so we drilled one another about our pasts laughing in common

puritan like domains of what really seemed so totally not SF for sure

good night John B--a bruised whisper discolored from across the loft

feeling him static neither to be like a brother or uncle

and not like that of a spouse, but of relations unfamiliar to the invisible solidiers

guarding the sweetest of embraces of which I've never felt, as solutions

the sleeping manuscripts dreaming in the background of Tivo lullabies