by David Boski




All We’ll Have Left



sleeping over at my mom’s

apartment, on her couch,

making sure she gets through

the night ok after her 4th round

of chemo; we talked, watched

Seinfeld, & I read some poems

by John D. Robinson & tried to

not think about the sadness of

her situation: the cruelty that life

deals to so many unexpectedly,

& just be happy with the time

we spent together & recognize

that those are moments that need

to be remembered & cherished for

as long as possible, cause one day

the memories are all we’ll have left.




a black line



 Hours of Chaos



days filled with:









drugs, alcohol,

anger, hatred,

bitterness, rage,

disgust, panic,

terror, torture,

pain, death, disease,

love, lust, sex,



boredom, apathy,

envy, grief and guilt.

the days feel like

minutes trapped

inside the hours






a black line



Feel Better



“Look at my pussy,

it’ll make you feel better”

she said, as she stood

in the shower, one leg in

tub, the other up on

the ledge, her hand

parting her lips as she

smiled: a few moments

earlier I had noticed a text

come through her phone

from her dealer, picked it up

and scrolled through the

message history: she assured

me it was her friend who

had used her phone to text

him about fucking and what

not, and that she would

never cheat on me: later

that night I found out she

was lying: I thought of her pussy

but it didn’t make me feel better.




a black line



Crying Game



I remember my sister saying:

David never cries, it’s so weird’

after our father’s funeral -

I stood there watching others

do just that:


my mother

my cousins

my aunt

his friends



who I didn’t know



as I fought back

my own

pushing those feelings

deep down

into my guts

hoping that’s where

they’d stay.


I’ve never felt comfortable

crying in front of other people

and even though I’ve done it before—

it’s a sight rarely seen.


It usually happens when I’m alone

and my insides spontaneously combust—

as I stand in the shower; a place I can’t feel my tears.




a black line



Luck’s Run Out



different people

different identities

men identifying

as women

women identifying

as men

the predator never

wants to identify as

the prey.

the prey sometimes

escapes with its life

and identifies as a

hero or a lucky bastard -


I’d like to identify as a

a happy human being -

which seems impossible.

they all have it easier than me;

but one day I will escape too,

permanently, like the prey

when its luck’s run out.


a black line


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