It may not be just theoretical,

heavy dark matter-crushing particles, that leave

behind no footprint or radiation, once disguised

as ancient stars that died out long ago,

now they can take down future starships.

People can carry the dark matter

in the psyches for years, the sickness

clouds the bloodstream, becomes the

welcoming ghost in their bed,

crushing them, while still alive,

as they wait for new stars to germinate,

to warm their bones once again.

To fight the matter, one must

smile in one’s liver, then in every cell

until the darkness stops.

Entering back into the womb,

it’s what being on opioids is like:

a curling inward in a warm, safe place,

your mind checking out temporarily

as the Universe forgets your existence;

the original pain is numbed, defanged,

de-categorized into a nice rumbling under the skin,

attention-span is wearing thin as the pain

still hangs out in the background, smoking,

causing you to piss and puke acid at odd moments.

I see why the cult of dependency is what it is.

People don’t like or even want to deal with the pain

in real-time; life should be hazy & lazy

because real life sucks ass. Many cousins of mine

are lifetime believers & followers of the cult of opioids.

They are damaged, distraught individuals.

I was taught not to do this. Only Tylenol for pains,

nothing more. Even on Tylenol, I have trouble

reclaiming my words, they drift in & out of the tunnel

too fast, as I remain still, my lower back still strained,

the pain sucking ass.

Always fashionable, slightly in decline,

a mix of industrial and romantic lines,

at Duarte Square (under construction),

I wanted to kiss you, but I couldn’t.

I tried to picture my man there,

stopping off at an Italian cafe

drinking aperol spritzes

as we watch the couples walk their chocolate-colored dogs

But the pictures of him didn’t stay;

I couldn’t see him here.

I need someone here, to make out

with, to hold close, to show any known affection—

I am lonely as an island in this city,

savoring a touch, a look, a want,

I want love to be simple,

especially here.

My ex reminded me of a chimera;

he was both a snake and a

lion who breathes fire;

he wore his two faces well.

His dashing Tuscan good looks

snared me at first glance; his pidgin English

sounded so sexy in his Sienese accent,

and he loved to collect art

made in my the Etruscan Age.

But jerks don’t stay hidden for long.

His anger boiled over constantly

when his ragu was a-salted,

and when the neighboring

wine selections would taste

like random vinegars.

All Americans were stupid;

I wasn’t at first,

but when I counterattacked

with my dizzying intellect,

which was my Pegasus—

He found a dark companion;

and screwed her brains out,

so we were soon done.

I don’t date monsters.