Panning in on the last four years, I remember
the times I was jealous of each of you
the things you’ve done that I’ll never do
the wishes I’ve made that have yet to come true
and as I take those times, those things and those wishes
and compare them to all that I’ve done and had,
I remember, too, that what you do is what you do
and that your lives are yours to lead
and that your time is yours to use as you please.
So I’ve pleaded with myself to let go
of the restrictions
that used to control my depiction of my self worth.

I remember when you made the better grade
when you would flaunt how much you paid
when you were not scared to parade around
and prove to everyone just how proud you were to be you,
but not because of what you’d do
or what you knew,
but because you could beat the others through-and-through,
no matter the circumstances.

I remember believing there was no space
for someone like me to take in a place of so much
"style and grace"… such as that which surrounds you…
And I remember how dumb I’d feel
how weak I’d feel
how small I’d feel
and just how **** unreal it was
to know that in no way, shape or form did I belong here
'cause some of this place inflated my fear
that I simply wasn’t good enough.
I had not stayed at the Ritz,
I had not been to ten countries,
I had not gotten a new Beamer at 16, crashed it, and then received an
even newer, nicer Beamer the following week.
(I mean really?)
But then I remember that I’m not you —
any of you —
that I’ll never do what any of you do
because your experiences are your own to keep
and I don’t want them for myself.

I’ve had my own thoughts and not been afraid to share them.
I’ve fallen, ripped my jeans and been proud to wear them.
I’ve got bad memories but I’ll always be glad to bare them,
because my experiences are my own and I want you all to know
that I’m not ashamed of my life,
and this poem isn’t about strife and how to avoid it.
All I’m trying to say is that I’ve cared what you think
but I’ve learned how to clear my mind and make sure it’s devoid of
comparisons to all the things you’ve done
'cause our time in this world has a limit
and I’m running my race, I aim to finish
and if I only care about me, I know I’ll win it.
And the same goes for this whole group
'cause if you never get the clue that
you’re only real competition will always be you,
then you’ll miss out on all of life’s true value.

But I didn’t realize this all on my own;
I’ve had people to guide me toward a path
that allowed me to hone in
on what’s real and what to disregard so I never feel
unworthy of or lesser than
those around me, so I’m able to stand
up on my two feet,
to not worry about defeat
and here’s my shout out to you
(you know who you are)
who fought my battles with me
and helped me stand my guard.

But this is for everyone in the room —
Just don’t forget your mistakes
and I won’t forget mine, ‘cause they’re the things that made me
what and who I’ll always be and
even though I’ve lied and I’ve cheated,
had my name typed as head prefect but then had it deleted,
I’m still in the lead ‘cause I’m thinking of me today.
What you need already lies in you,
no matter how much you hope and pray.
But here comes the baton and I’ve got to hand it to myself —
I’m kickin’ (chapel edit) at this relay.

Thick pretty smoke stacks chafe the faces
of stand-alone city youngins
kneeling on side streets with their knees in murky drain water
on the ***** asphalt, circling a dented stop sign.
And next to the sun-worn mural of Jack Kerouac, burning fumes
and sugar strips throw a film of
distortions on the eyes of the already-blind
censored minds of middle class America.

It’s 1964 and the times have changed. The music just got good
and there’s this thing called freedom.
That’s the word on the street, and it used to only ring a bell
but recently there’s a beat of a drum never
heard over these boxy radios, never seen on TV shows
and it’s not left to anyone — no moms, no teachers,
no dads, no kids, no beavers. ‘Cause now,
that makes no sense.
And the only thing that works is a four-letter word —
B.E.A.T. — and it spells out recovery in any light.

And people love the smell of unwatched life, even through
the choking smoke clouds intoxicating
the air with high hopes and fingers shot higher,
like a bird with new wings, flying over things
as crazy as kids praying to an eight-sided red warning,
beat-in, ‘cause someone wouldn’t be stopped.

Sky’s dark grey tonight, and it’s a memory on a loop, driving west with a boy I used to know on nights like these, acoustic sounds blowing out our windows, my toes curling while he and I swirl together around the world we’ve captured a hundred times on this same back road under green leaves falling through the moon roof, or the sun roof — which ever — and the dashboard’s decorated with pieces of our adventure. Teaming tides of east coast night winds win us over and beneath this clearer sky, we vacate city lights, seek a noiseless night where we can engulf ourselves in this hundred-and-first sweep-up of each other, echo our breaths against his and my skin and the freer air we finally find every time we rendez-vous into the nowhere-new-but-unknown-to-you place we’ve loved for three years. And these times we’ve taken again and again, as we’re stuck together like a sickly sweet love song to a girl’s healing heart, pull my rosy cheeks up to my squinting eyes and draw me back to each day that led me to love him. And I’ll keep loving him while these trees keep whistling in the cool breezes wrapping around winding dirt paths, and as our torn turquoise quilt keeps us warm on winter-nights-almost-turned-spring, these things leave me breathless in the crook of his arms until he revives me to let him lead me to love.

The impermanence of this hour ignites any of my whimsical fancies
churning dormant fantasy, so my undying vitality
booms through every vein, tears past poorly-sewn seams,
and stampedes across unaffected lethargy until something
dares alleviate my despondency, and so transcends this transience;

your smiles stop time for me.

Your smiles allot therapy, and from there, they build synergy
between the group of you and me, and thus, we’ve got some harmony in this
tangy, boundless give-and-take.
For you, I pour out my soul and as arresting compensation,
this bliss on your illuminated faces suspends my
heart’s drumming anticipation and
delineates the reason for my persistent attempts to bring you joy;

from widely-divided mouth corners to pearly whites
engulfing visages.
Air-deficient laughs, eyes overflowing with floods of saline.
Wrinkled noses, squinted eyes, hiccups and sentimental sighs
act as acoustic introduction to that fervent seduction
all of you (time and time again) douse me with to keep my fire burning.

No matter the time or place, your hallowed happiness
is forever that axiomatic substance that prompts me
to draw breath, warmth and vision ceaselessly.

Smile; it insires me.

run down, they once stuck to your roof top
sopping wet of sugary coatings that used to taste sweet in my mind but are


dry now and flaking around the boarders of crowned molds, gilded
and losing their shine behind
firmly locked soft gates, of an off-rose shade, that gently caressed
my unattached ear lobes that night in your car while you
slurred candied whispers above the incandescent small city,

with a view from a vacant parking lot.

too many times our silhouettes tangled together under shadows to
the same rhythm the background melodies hummed in the rush of
our second sentiment.
and the way your voice sounded — velvety, in that desirable sort of way —

tamed any quick beats of mine and aligned in a spiral with
my dying uneasiness.

but the flavour of your tone sat unpleasant on my tongue,
so I noticed the sugar was gone

'cause your words hung dry in the friday evening air.

My night, under opaque wraps, collects my candid questions —
unkept before the walls crept back up on me and
crammed my thorough thoughts
into sufficient suffocation and disallowed my dislocation
from total cerebral closure —
and covers cognative wonders with a dense fence-like stone cure.

The clean-cut cold sheets, tucked beneath the bed springs
spring my curiosity through layer after layer
of teeming tides of blockades and prohibition
but someone sits at the edge of the road, just before crack
drops to cliff and he catches my despair, tangled in the rye, and
before my in-experience allows me to cry,
he hurls my candid questions back my way and continues
my disallowance of detaching myself from purity.

But despite his baseball mitts, he can’t catch my verbal fits
so I scream, “My wants can’t be blocked forever and Holden,
I’m holding onto my life for the sake of avoiding strife with you but
celibacy of the mind can only lead to our true demise.”

He looks me in the eyes, scared he’d been outdone,
so he tries to run but the cliff leaves him hanging and
I reach for his undemanding hand that swats my offer
with a backwards hat.
But his fear subsides in his recollection of his misinterpretation of
a silly old poem that led him to believe he could catch our innocence.
So wear your hat straight, Holden, ‘cause in the rye,
you’re not the groundskeeper, but keep your ground and
catch yourself before you fall off the cliff and lose yourself
in your selfless tantrums and your disregard for your need for wondering.

Let me break through my caul, ‘cause it’s burning of decay and
I’ve overstayed my welcome in this amniotic gate, devoid of vitality,
and I like my life in my own hands, so I’ll tell you now:
I’m holdin’ on, Holden. Get a grip and hold on, yourself.