Climaxes & Joints

After leaving the parlor, my ink still bleeds pomegranate
sunrise over you your own best thing onto the inner hem
of my white cotton-blend tee. Maari smokes

Marlboros ‘cause she can’t stand the length of history
it takes to smoke the American Spirit Jodi offers
her on our sidewalk break. Second-hand smoke

feels up my cleavage & greets customers like the fury
of a Tiger Woods’ fist pump, catches the raven-
haired boy with bangs in a Doors t-shirt & skinny

jeans off guard in front of Osakas, where I frequent &
order jasmine rice with ornately painted chopsticks—
the kind my sister Lisa likes to stab into her imperfect “Love

is a Racket” red bun. I’m totally into OPI nails &
Pureology hair since my boyfriend Juan, a poet from L.A.
who used to DJ at The Moon’s Latin Night Sweats, broke

up with me over chicken Yakisoba & salmon shioyaki;
rumor has it, a splinter still prevents him from scratching
vinyl like he used to. Jodi & I still frequent The Moon though.

We crossfade between a joint & a trio of Jäger bombs
just to extinguish my memory of the guttural sounds
of sex we once made. While sitting on the stool

covered with the ordinary-black sweater I bought
that year from The Limited, among neon lights,
the smoke from the fog machine must have hid

my crisscrossed chopsticks, those extra appendages—
flicking Juan off; a memento tattoo of a bass line
joint’s holler & beat-breaking his final climax.