we
talked
about
kids
we
will
never
have
what
my
parents
have
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
fumble with my fork as he tells me he "gets" my depression;
sunday morning church crowd in a diner off the highway.
mumble something about refusing medication.
he applauds me for being "strong"
which has always been the goal,
unattainable as it is.
he says "you're not independent enough.
you're
18
19
20
21 years old.
so grow up,
and pay your own way."
and i say, "yes sir."
and he says, "if you need anything, i'm here."
my face flushes hot with confusion, embarrassment.
small jars of honey on the table, just asking to be stolen.
i fix my gaze to one, as a question falls from my mouth:
"why do you have a book called 'planning ahead: how to write your will?'"
cut back to that cup of coffee
those eggs, bacon, back pain, old age
he says "i won't be here to see you guys have kids."
i feel tears falling, scalding like acid.
*gee dad,
love you too.*
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
we kiss like a swordfight,
sandpaper to silk.
tick
tock
tick
t-
the driver's side door always closes a
split second before the passenger's.
cut to the bar: enveloped in smoke and your arms,
the quiet hum of your shirt against my cheek
close my eyes and the pool table turns to noise-
the red lights become laughter, and i smile.
my back's against invisible glass,
eyes still shut, i feel your voice
sound out above my head
as i stay, tucked under
your chin and
stolen.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
you have no idea? oh, really?
well why does your hair smell like that?
whose bobby pins are on your nightstand?
why don't you sleep on the wet spot?
staple your heart to mine,
cold fingers tracing outlines of veins.
a bag of batteries rustling in the hallway,
like so much change in my jacket pocket.
remember the night we had in july?
sapphire, lipstick and sweat.
there's no such thing as a muse, ok?
so don't say i'm yours just yet.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
a single light in only black
next to me, a child lies sleeping.
i hear his cries, feel his tears,
but if i wake him, he won't make it.
good poets make you lock eyes with the noose
and call out to your old friend, death.
long time, no see.
you cited a beauty in madness-
the single beam of light cutting
deeply through my synapses.
your hair waved around me while
we held each other, sobbing.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
thumbs,
purple while pistachios lay laughing with closed
mouths
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 2:25 AM UTC
i fumble with my fork as my dad tells me he "gets" my depression
sunday morning church crowd in a ******* barrel just off the interstate
i mumble something about refusing medication
he applauds me for being "strong"
which has always been the goal,
unattainable as that is.
"you're not independent enough.
you're 18
19
20
years old
so grow up
and pay your own bills."
"yes sir."
cut back to that cup of coffee
those eggs, bacon, back pain, old age
"i won't be here to see you guys have kids"
gee dad.
i love you too.
death has never been comfortable for anyone but liars.
or the dying.
the small jars of honey on the table are just asking to be
stolen.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 11:10 AM UTC
while age is only a number,
experience is a set of volumes.
you, thanks to time and genetics,
have overflowing shelves.
you've done it all.
a house of your own.
a car of your own.
a cat.
a rose garden.
(are you gay?)
nieces, nephews.
unfixed income.
"making it."
how can i be so proud of you?
it's hardly been 4 months
since
i ran into you in the doorway
of the bar
trying to make my exit unnoticed
as i had avoided you not one hour before.
knowing one of us would have to say "hi" first.
but that was then.
now is this.
this
this
this dull glow
that never leaves my heart.
someone's always stoking the fire.
your shift starts
now.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC