Dominque Lowell

He was an asshole.
With the angry thrashing fists of all my years
I threw myself in his wake and offered
him anything, all of it, whatever he might desire.
I dangled myself there like a scarf waiting
to adorn him

and his train wreck. Him
telling me "you're either an asshole
or a prick", me trying to pick one while waiting,
straining for footsteps as the stairs groaned the years
of quiet servitude they humbly gave. He fed on desire.
His brilliant audacity the communion he offered.

The sublime he called it. Offered
in the curve of a spoon. Him
first. Always. The perfect mix for you my hearts desire.
Tapping the needle, tap tap tap. Fuck you asshole
I'm buying my own damn needle. My own years
of breathless seamless waiting.

It wasn't news I was or wasn't waiting
for, that without a how or why offered
he had been dead now for years.
Dead in jail, no mourning of him,
coroners report said "undetermined causes", just another asshole
in L.A. County. Was it sublime? Your hearts desire?

Was it sublime? The desire
innate in the rage that lay waiting
for just such an over-privileged asshole.
A Hollywood boy who bit every hand ever offered
to him. Hands that were tired of bailing him
out year after year.

His audacity was brilliant. But after a few years
it stopped being cute. He knew that. He knew desire
must always leave you dangling. No one needed to tell him
that. He lived deep in the waiting.
This was what he settled for and all he offered.
Prick or asshole.

too many and too few the years of waiting
the raging desire offered
him just another asshole