BOMB THE PAST

put some music on, she said,
choose something, she said,
but it was hard -
a million albums
a billion EPs
a trillion twelve inches
a zillion CDs,
and my hand
closed over her round brown breast, and
my knuckle knocked
the thick ring through the nipple,
and I think
I drew her smoke
over my teeth,
and I guess
I passed her cocaine
over my heart,
and I know
she was quietly bad-tempered
in the cold, disconnected bedroom,
but
I'm not sure
how much of this
is made of words said later,
like how much of it comes
from telling the tale -
the persistence of memory
slides as my clock melts
and the only thing left
is the slogan
on the t-shirt
from under her bed
that I still have
even now:

BOMB THE PAST