Rainy Day Gina

                                      In beaded rainbow canopy windows, the daytime blue curtains of Gina's living room apartment. Up the tenement staircase to her rainy evening second story balcony. Over teatime conversations, the blanketed coffee table carpeted with cigarette ash. On previous afternoons, I the local bus-stop bathroom attendant boy, crying into my coffee, telling her how I miss the city. She would comfort me in artificial lampshade corridors. It was the crinkled poster corners that aligned her plum painted walls. Brown-eyed and on Sunday were her words reassuringly: "I as the city, am always here for you, just as the dope man laboring on dimly lit street corners isn't going anywhere neither".
                                    Alcoholic on Monday morning Gina. Night red lipstick Gina. The Gina who befriends circus outcasts, and wrong caused left-wing politicians. Poetry readings beneath regional hallway railings Gina. The five stringed guitar degenerate Gina. Decades overcast her delicate feminine features below crimson nightfall. Misplaced Ginsberg generation of practical joking Gina. April fools two months too late Gina. Silken snow faeries sprinkling pale sultry morning sand upon her nocturnal eyeliner Gina.
                                   Towards the end of an all-niter weekend, spending all night talking over domesticated beer cans and pharmaceutical amphetamine. She was all wound up on showing me her high school senior year photograph. Class of '99, denim slacks and Marlboro fingertips, deep in her densely outlined mascara framed portrait. She did not age well in her '30s, neither did I. Sleep comes as a reclusive thief in the night does on stale mornings such as these.
                                    After work I scuttle through neighborhood blueprint mazes, beyond backyard landscapes, upon cemented sidewalk boundary lines. Escaping the tarantula-like citizen extravaganza. Blood pumping through my veins like heat simmering off a freshly cocked pistol. Gun powder wreckage sums up my days, time spent here upon the torturous front line of civilization. Into her frail needle pierced arms I run. Gina, you understand the irony of humanity. You breath the overwhelming awe of the Hindenburg and Titanic. You throw yourself to the urban township wolf boys every breeding moment, in gnashing pools of maroon blood stains, upon linoleum kitchen floor boards of panic.
                                     We were not cut out for this life or any other Gina. Let us toast to rainy day seasons delicately before we die, savoring your dead mothers ashes, and mine. Echoing dismal voices that surround the remote canyon. Let our souls ride and dance out into the wild together, one last time before we go,  you with the generics, and I with the name brand.