I take my wallet out of my pocket
as I get ready to pull the blanket over me and go to sleep
I take my wallet out of my pocket so that in my sleep
the razor blade I keep inside
for convenience
doesn't slip out and cut me up
more than I would like to be.

I let that little bit of leather rest in my hand
and stare at it in the light from the worn lamp with chipping black paint
that silently stands over my computer monitor
lighting this small corner of the living room
that I live in.

My wallet is lighter
and there is a bulge missing
the bulge that I always kept at the front
in the same slot as my razor
after the string unfurled and my neck started to ache.

Yes, that coin is gone
that little Moroccan good luck charm that you insisted was special
even though there was another handful of identical coins in your cupholder.

It's gone and so are you:
it is no longer rubbing against my thigh as I walk
or hitting that hollow spot in my breast bone every time I take a step
and the line of blisters that formed around it when I got sunburnt while wearing it is gone.

And your words are no longer ringing in my ears
my fingers are no longer aching to tap my thoughts into my phone to you,
I have no tears in my eyes as I set my wallet on the little makeshift table
that my computer monitor rests on,
that your phone would rest on.

I only smile as I look at the string curled around the feet of the clock that you found
on the other side of those boxes
last time you were here.

I smile at the string that once held that coin
that I was considering putting the little plastic coin
painted the color of your car
and carved with the words "Washington's Lottery"
to prove to myself that I am a winner
that I do not lose at every aspect of my life.

But I realized the other day I didn't need to
I didn't need that memory of my success
because I can flip off any car even remotely similar to yours and feel no shame
I can walk down the road and watch you turn around in a parking lot fifty feet in front of me
just to avoid me
and know that I have won freedom
from all the pain you caused me
because these nights I don't have tears frozen  in my eyes
and my legs don't bleed.

I let my wallet rest there in the lamplight
and turn off the lamp.
I pull the comforter over me and wrap myself in that fuzzy blue blanket
that I once said I preferred over you to keep me warm
laughing as the words rolled off my tongue
because we both knew it was a joke.

But it isn't a joke anymore
the prefer the slight warmth that gives me
over the artificial warmth of your skin
since what's hidden because pumps ice through your veins.

I curl up under that blanket in the darkness
on that couch we almost went all the way on
and would have if my aunt hadn't been twenty feet away.
I curl up under that blanket alone
and feel for my now-flat wallet
smiling as my palm rests on the leather
and I remember the bulge that is now on a chain in my sister's bedroom in Sequim.

You have left me
and I'm happy for that.
I bring my arm back to me
and tuck it under my body
smiling because I'm alone
and smiling because being away from you
being rid of you
makes me smile.

You keep your right hand on the monster can
and steer with your left
down that rainy, bumpy gravel road in the middle of nowhere.
I pull out the baggy and count
five.
I sit there and breath
as you grab your sword umbrella off the backseat.
There will no gasping, glaring mothers here.
we pass the rock,
the large spraypainted rock at the end of that long, dark, gravel road
and you decide the umbrella is no use on the trail,
turn around,
realize you locked the car
and panic slightly trying to find your keys.

Thirty seconds later we make it past the rock and beat our way through the underbrush
at the opening to the trail.
We talk, as we always do
as we make our way through,
this midsummer rain coating our bare arms slightly.
I keep my fist clenched.
at the end, we take a left and go around the trees
instead of under them
and stand there.

It feels like I'm on the top of the world as I stand here with you
and in a matter of speaking, I am.
The ground, the beach, is 500 feet below, down there
and fog covers everything more than 1,000 feet away.
I stand there, just stand there
and you nod at me
so I throw the first one
the first razor blade
into the ivy below.
I try to see the rain forming on the second
and try to land the third in the water
the forth sticks to the fifth and I almost accidentally slit the end of end of my *******
an action that, along with 30 years of smoking two bowls and two packs a day
would make me my own fathers twin.
I throw it farther than the rest, remembering him.
I don't watch the last one
just throw it and turn to you.
you smile and we walk away
and talk about our past habits
how stupid and dangerous it is to give either of us blades
about where we've thrown ours in the past,
who we've given em to
keeping their past purposes a joke
because those people always seem to be the ones who cause it.
But really, we're the ones who cause it
ain't we?

You ask me why I bought them in the first place
and I saw,"eh.."
like I always do when I don't wanna say what I'm thinking
because I'm on the top of the world with you and don't wanna say
'I bought em after you drove by me with some guy, twice.
You think that made me feel good? *****"
And you say,"just did, huh?"
and I say,"yeah."
like I always do when I run out of words
when I don't want to say anymore
when I just want to hear your voice
and not my own.

I rip the Moroccan good luck coin off of my neck
bury the coppery metal in the string I have wrapped it in
and throw it beside the empty monster BFC
which sits next to the empty canteen that I filled with now sour blackberries this Sunday
the stack of losing scratch tickets, about $8.00 worth
and all the boxes that I have packed my life into and stuffed underneath that little card table
in front of the couch I live on in my great-aunts living room
which used to be my grandma's living room.

I throw that coin there
remembering just a minute ago seeing the dried tear tracks down my cheeks
which, at this moment, scream her name
my most recent temporarily failed obsession.

In this moment she is just another attempt for me to try to feel loved
being there, continuously, for her
wearing on my joints
on my mind
every last thought turning into paranoia
as I spill my heart out over a text, a ******* text, again
and she doesn't reply
again
and again
and again.
no reply.
And in those moments, this moment
I thirst for the glint of silver in this lonely, cold lamplight
for the feel of the knife I threw over the cliff and into the cold waters of discovery bay
in my hands.
I thirst for the feel of the tip pressed into my skin
the blade pulled, quickly, but never fast enough
slicing skin and hair and letting her name
(whatever her name is at the name)
spill, a thousand times across me
warm and somehow relaxing
as if telling me I was always right.

I thirst for that feeling warmth as I tell myself
that she doesn't care enough to keep me warm
that nobody does.
That I'm just a lower lip to bite once and forget,
just a sea of words bubbling over and reaching out for those closest
those who have ever even looked in the direction of this endless ocean and smiled,
reaching for them, grabbing them, tearing them to pieces, and drowning them,
or trying to, accidentally.
And then, when they escape, turning into a sea of rage
of warmth
of blood
that consumes itself and stays at low tide for days, weeks, months at a time
alone
the words having no sand, no skin, no mind other than their own to spill out upon.

I throw that coin there
on the carpet
where the TV used to be,
it now sits in my forgotten fathers bedroom
in the house I ran away from.

I throw that coin there
in the shadow of the empty monster BFC
hiding it from the glint of the dying lamplight
that makes my head scream
and my teeth clench
at 1:02am
as I wait for her
as I wait to somehow be remembered
to somehow have someone give a ****
and realize it's never going to happen.

I sit here, at now 1:04am staring at that coin
that she took out of her cars cup holder and gave to me
that I have worn on my neck for four days
leaving a white line through the redness of a sunburn.
that cold metal hitting my breastbone continuously, making a hollow thumping sound
reminding me of the hollowness in my chest
that even that heart,
which is beating faster than the off tempo drummers in the park in Leschi,
wired on 800mg of caffeine,
is hollow;
pumping less and less blood into my body with each disappointment
with each innocent passerby who finds herself buried under the words
that are floating there
close enough to see
close enough to hear on nights like this where they just want to break forth.

I sit here staring at that dull copper in the shadows
and dreaming of silver glinting in the lamplight.

I feel the last few spare hairs fall away from the crystallized tower on top of my scalp
as our adopted mother walks by
spitting smoke into the breeze
which is blowing away from us,
letting the words
"I do wish you could just kiss and make up"
spread along the outline of the fading smoke
coming from nowhere obvious
spurred on by nothing.
I hear the voice behind me agree
and I murmur my own agreement
but I see none of that when I look into the eyes of her eldest daughter
I see no chance of me rekindling anything
with the girl inside, cleaning the kitchen alone.
For the first time in three years
I see no love for me in her eyes
and I watch her hands pick up papers and ***** dishes
and realize that they will no longer be in mine
I see words hidden behind her eyes
but realize I will never hear them
as I run through the kitchen on my way to the bathroom
to expell from my bladder my attempt to caffeinate her away,
as I run through her house, my second home
and realize she hasn't even bothered to meet my eye today.
I look in the mirror at my hair
and smile wide, forgetting the tears that have been frozen in my eyes
since I realized that I had lost
the first person to find me
the first person to find out who I was,
so I smile as I look in the mirror and see someone completely different

There are ten of us-
Make that eleven-
Barreling down the highway at highway speeds;
two elderly thai women,
a middle aged man
with some sort of mental disability
his eyes hunting, hungrily for someone to listen to him,
three old men in the back
talking about cars, women and building houses
(while riding the bus on their own in old ripped clothing)
and the strange mix from my stop;
two women no older than my mother
that look older than my grandma
from an obvious history of hard drugs,
and elderly grandma-type woman
who could be a therapist,
engaged as she is in reading some sort of case study.

The driver keeps an engaged, concentrated look on his face
as we zip through sunlit countryside
that I have never seen this way.
It's only 9 AM
and I'm listening to Counting Crows, Sugar Ray and The Goo Goo Dolls.

The women who are older than they should be
get off at the casino.

The man with the disabilities clenches his seat
as we pass the," entering Sequim," sign.
The Thai women put their purses on their shoulders here
and I take my headphones off,
wrap the cord around them and put them away.

Two of the men in back are still talking,
the third has fallen asleep,
his head against the wall,
mouth pointed toward the ceiling.

The grandmotherly woman gets off at the co-op
the rest of us disembark at the bus station and go our separate ways.

1.
He lights another mortar
and the dog runs after it
barking and trying to bite it
he grabs it's back leg as the sky lights up
since he had barely thought to look over
and the words around here don't reach his mind
his ears defective as they are.
He says something with his hands
something foreign to me
but six people watching laugh
and so do I.


2.
His wife sits with her sons
her stomach wide with their third
another boy
she's gotten so used to talking with her hands
that her voice is rusty
and her vocabulary limited
but she's here as much as the rest
sitting and laughing and having a good time.


3.
The owner of the house sits off the side in the nicest lawn chair here
a cup in her hand
we've quit counting how many drinks she's had
but she only drinks a couple days a year
and nobody is giving her any problems
and she seems to be able to be her normal self.
She had been questioning me earlier today
seeing if I was really a good guy
testing whether she'd have to sit at the table with a shotgun
every time I spent any time with her niece.


4.
Her husband is launching his own collection of mortars off
with his brother
while her brother-in-law hands the teens the novelties
I launch off a dozen flowers
and a few spinny things.
She occasionally breaks her fingers away from mine
to launch off a flower, smokebomb or firecracker
and occasionally runs over to poke-chop her uncle
who keeps talking to the fireworks.
She always comes back and we'll wander by her mom and stepdad
(the latter always throws in some sort of comment
so we act careful around him)
and over to her cousins
or toward her aunt and roommate.
Occasionally we'll have to get something from the house
and we sneak three kisses
but we mostly just stay in each others arms
keeping each other warm in the almost warm 4th of July night
our hands both entwined
one of our heads always on the others shoulder
and in all the craziness
all the family drama
everything is perfect and she's smiling so hard her cheeks keep hurting
and she keeps telling me how little sleep she's gonna get
and I tell her I ain't gonna be able to sleep at all

I finish scooping a large serving of stir fry onto a styrofoam plate
with the two metal spatulas left on the counter for me.
I sidestep the forty something year old man who is our host
who has opened this house, his families house, to us
his extended family.
I jump over the dog and take a seat in a metal folding chair that has been set by the table
which is meant to seat 4, but is seating 9 tonight.
To my right is an old friend, the estranged stepsister of the sleeping hostess
to my left; the father of another friend who is, himself the best friend of the host
and a regular in this kitchen.
His son sits on the other side of the girl to my right
his girlfriend is across from him
and to his right is the three year old niece of  the hostess.
Her Five year old sister sits across from her.
at the end is the 14 year old daughter of the hostess
and across from me is her sister, the reason I am here.
We eye each other across the table,
trying to say something to each other
trying to reveal the sound our heartbeats make,
but our words are frozen in our throats.
They would be pierced though by flying words
and noodles
and laughs
and forks.
they would be pierced through by the energy here
by the connectedness
by everything.
If we were to say anything
it would be rendered so completely useless so quickly
that we can't.
Or so we tell ourselves
as we sit at this table
with our large, crazy, extended, adopted family
knocking elbows as we try to eat
passing around the Parmesan cheese
listening to the dogs barking at us for accidentally kicking them
as they tried to forage for food scraps under our chairs
not telling us they were there.
There is a happiness here
a buzzing
an energy
this is a family
this is a family

and I belong

I walk out their back door
and onto F street.
I stand there for a second
halfway up the hill
staring at the deep reds and soft pinks of the fading sunset
and then turn and continue on my way
into the shadows of the multi story brick buildings
that form my high school
my old school.
I walk through the staff parking lot and under the library
where I spent my lunches for three of those four years
alone.
I climb the stairs and walk past the couch,
the giant cement couch that gets re-painted every night
with a message of some sort,
this time it's white with green letters welcoming the 2014 seniors.
the lights are all on and another guy walks past on the other side of the lawn
I stand there for a second and he passes me
I want to stand here forever
staring at all the buildings
staring at my life for four years,
but I continue on
past the annex, the gym, the Stuart
past the Catholic church where I took pictures in the last snowstorm
past the Mar Vista portables and the art portable
and down Blaine street
where we'd run freshman year in PE,
tapping the gate at Chetzemoka and running back.
Sophomore year I'd walk the same route
during photography and video productions, with friends.
Some days I would turn and walk down to Aldriches,
some days I would continue on
some days I would rehearse my own poetry under my breath.
Today I turn a block before Chetz and continue down the hill
past the condos and the turn off for Point Hudson
past the skate park
past Memorial Field (packed with so many memories)
past the park, the old police station,
the ice cream shop dad used to work at,
the tea shop where I've spent so many hours,
the fountain, the stairs, the writers workshop, the old underground coffeeshop,
my therapist's office, the best pizza in town,
the motel where my mom's first roommate now lives (and works),
into the port and past grandma's old workplace,
past the restaurant my grandpa used to spend hours at
and the boat he used to live on
past the port showers they used to use
and onto the trail along the beach I would walk with mom and grandma
when my now 12 year old brother was in a stroller,
past the mill, sitting at the bottom of three long winding hilly roads,
containing memories of that awful polluted stench that clings to the first third of this town
and would cling to my dad when he'd return from work,
and up the road we lived on when we first moved here.
Past the homeless trails I have scavenged for beer cans on for hours for spare change
and the apartments we used to live in,
past the flowershop where I bought the corsage
that the cheerleader I went to prom with kept getting complimented on.
Past my best friends house
and past the flooring place that we mowed the grass for last summer.
Across the roundabout that has grown into the highway
past the crematorium and waste not want not.
Past the apartments that she lives in, my name still somewhere in her heart.
Past my fathers Jeep and under the archway, covered in dead roses.
Across the mossy yard and through my front door.
I'm going to miss this town.

Incense smoke billows into the rays of fading sunlight
from the nostrils of the stone Buddha head
sitting on the wooden bookcase
which sits in front of the only downstairs window
that looks into the cul-de-sac

I stand in the spreading fog
listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers
over the radio static
on knock-off studio headphones.

My cousins are outside, breaking up dirt to be shoveled in the morning
and I can hear the dull thudding
of the *** against the large rocks
above both the calm silence of the house
and the semi-gurgled music playing in my left ear.

I turn around to look at the kitchen;
the counters are clean
so are the dishes
and a small plate of freshly baked cookies
is sitting in the middle of the island.

I walk from the carpet of the living room
to the warm tile of the kitchen
and the scents around  me change;
The overpowering smell of the swirling mist
being overpowered by chocolate chip cookies
fresh baked bread
and homemade spaghetti sauce.

I smile as I stand in the middle of the house

For once, the tears aren't falling from my eyes
As I stand on this stage
the arm of the middle aged blond woman-
with a smile frozen on her lips
and tears frozen in her eyes, ready to fall at moments like this,
resting on my shoulders.
And with every word she says
I see another gurgle of raw, teary happiness bubble out of the short shaking woman
sitting in front of me
whose name, face and voice I know
but who I have barely talked to.
The applause is too much
it's all too much.
I take the check,
give a her a 30 second hug
and sit down next to my aunt.
She hugs me and the whole room smiles
the principal takes longer to stand, drying her face
but announces the next presenter just the same.

She's right there
fifteen feet from me,
my red, dilated eyes
and bleeding legs
screaming her name
or rather screaming the fact that I couldn't scream her name
couldn't whisper it,
couldn't even get close enough
that if I had whispered it, she would have heard me.
But she's right there
and she doesn't hear me anyway.
So why am I bleeding?
Why am I high?
Why am I broken?
She doesn't care

I stand when they stand, stretching out my legs
tired from sitting on this hard plastic for over an hour.
I look over and they are already sitting back down,
I suddenly feel silly standing
even though my name will be called in less than a minute
And I sit back down.

The second I make full contact with the seat I hear my name
I sigh, stand, and descend to the table.

I shrug the blazer off my shoulders smiling
"It fits" I say
the joy in my voice apparent.
He turns, smiling and hands me a hanger.
"Good luck man" he says
"I've known you for so long, 6th grade, when you were in 8th
It's been great watching you change
watching you grow
and sharing life with you.
You come visit after you leave
even if I'm gone you know the kids will pull you inside
you're like family man, don't go disappearing forever.
I hope you go far
and I'm excited to see what you do"
These words hold so much truth
that I can't even face him,
I study the tv stand
"thanks man, I will
I'll be back someday
and I know that if I sit outside somebody will come eventually.
Thank you for everything you've done
All the memories we have
and the place to stay when I'm bored and I can.
Thank you for your family
that has slowly grown to be like mine.
Thank you.
I'll be back sometime
Sometime"

As our words flit across the screen
I see her on the other side
In her bedroom, or somewhere in her house
That smile she always wears when talking to me
(the one that confuses me because it is shallow and hides a deeper meaning that I can't read)
Stretched across her lips.
What are her intentions here?
what does she gain from this?
From seeing me with another
Not five feet from her
On her night
And knowing she set us up.
What do the eyes hidden behind the screen hide?
What thoughts?
What emotions?
What secrets?

Her hands are folded across the back of her neck
headphones cover her ears.
She sits at a table with three other girls
but they don't talk to her
and she shrinks lower in the chair
her already small form shrinking into a ball.

I should walk there
only fifteen feet away
and sit there next to her

We always go our separate ways in this stairwell
They go down
to socialize, to laugh, to eat
I go up
to sit alone
The smiles between the three of us dissolve on that landing
the laughs
everything that has happened in the last hour
gone among the voices of the descending crowd pushing past me

I sit here singing along to Tim Mcgraw
as the hail tries to crack my window open
between thunderclaps
I need you
I need you
Whoever you are
I need you

I scoop up the last armful of clothes from my drawer,
Look at my uncle sitting at my computer
my eyes screaming,"I'm done, that's it"
he nods his head, listening to my aunt on the other end of the phone
and playing with the settings of the security camera dad bought to spy on us.
I carry them into the hallway,
kick grandmas already half open door
drop them on the bed
and sort them out;
a pair of pants,
I lift the shirts from the Mexican midnight takeout box
insert the pants,
put the shirts back down
add another pile of shirts
and fit the socks and underwear along the side.
this is the third box
and it's done.
three boxes, a clothes basket, a backpack and a computer
and I feel like a hoarder, like I have far more than I need.

as I turn around I feel him wrap his arms around my neck
and ease his tear filled eyes onto my shoulder.
"I love you, Bubba"
he says, in a voice deeper than it should be
"I can deal with him,
but living without either of my brothers scares me"
I start crying, I can't hold back the tears
all the pain and suffering of eighteen long years
finally **** near over
and I almost start grabbing clothes and stuffing them back into the drawers.
I almost say
"I can wait six years for a life"
but I look into his eyes
and see that he's telling me not to stay
that his heart will be torn up
but he can make it through
he always has.
twelve years old and the strongest person I know.

we stand there embraced for a quarter hour
crying until we have no more tears
until we have let out all the anger and fear of the last nine years.

we stumble into the dark hallway
eyes red, swollen, and damp.
Nobody asks any questions
and we continue on with our day,
my entire life piled up on the far side of grandma's bed

they approach me during intermission
as I sink into my chair,
a crowd of people I don't know gathered around
nobody speaking to me,
his voice startles and awakens me,
traveling fifteen feet to me, over the din of this crowd,
but not traveling an inch further-
and carrying my name,
which he could only have matched with my face
through a detailed description of the latter
and a memory not common among eighty year old men.

as he approaches I can see him better:
a few inches short than me
with a large *** belly and hair that is thinning, but still present.
His voice is strong, and his eyes are studying
but he wears a hearing aid that look like a blue tooth for an 80s cell phone
and glasses that are larger than the ones i never wear
but smaller than most of the hundred pairs in this room.
His wife stands next to him:
a small woman, filipino
with a soft, almost absent voice and a gentle smile
but eyes that show the extent of her sadness
and the mass of winkles on her forehead and cheeks
make her appear a decade or more older than she is,
that make the three and a half decade age difference between them seem to shrink.

We speak for a minute, we smile and laugh
and then they leave

I'm going to be reading Saturday, first reading in exactly four months. I would like you guys to help me pick what to read: send me your 3 favorite titles (a link or description if untitled). I will read the most poular, if not the two most popular (but not the one about my algebra class or dreams,  if you like a section of either  of those, send me the section number). And if you live close to Port Townsend, Washington and would like to hear me read, it's from 6-7 pm at Pippa's Real Tea, downtown Port Townsend. There are two other scheduled readers, both are pretty amazing, and then a half hour open mic.

We round the corner of that dilapidated building next to the highway
And I see her walking, hobbling, home
carrying a small backpack.
I want to walk over there
and off to walk her the last block
but I don't
and I continue on.
But I look back for a second
when my dad stops to talk to the directory of the funeral home.
She stops, thirty feet past where she had just been
looks at me
and gasps.
I want to ask her why my face shocks her so.
All I've ever been to her
as far as she knows
is a customer in the store for two seconds.
My face is not able to be traced in her memory
as her daughters latest ex,
an occurrence I'm no long bitter about.
I am nothing to her,
even though she had the potential to be a lot to me.
So I stand there
wondering what about me made her gasp.
I wave, smile and continue walking.

I'm walking down the cafeteria hallway
holding a laptop that took twenty minutes to fix.
I spot her packing up her possessions from the table,
everything too spread out for her not to have eaten alone,
but she's smiling as usual
and it spreads to my lips.

I hear my name and I stop
not because someone was talking to me
but because they were talking about me
something that never happens
or never used to
until they started to see who I really was
and fall in love with that-
Clapping me on the shoulders,
sending me emails,
adding me on Facebook
congratulating me publicly
giving me hugs
stopping me in the hall
turning history into a discussion about me
being a superhero for those in need of help.
all because I have developed the guts to say something
or rather, write something
nobody else admits to being able to say.

My name comes from that table on the left
up against the lockers
first seat on the far end after the bar
my old seat, for two years.
It's those memories that have allowed me to say what I've said-
those memories of losing everything
of rebuilding, from scratch
of having my lips bleed because they are so unused they crack
of finding the darkest emotions
and recovering.

I walk five more feet and turn right.
She looks up as I approach.
I hand her her laptop and charger, smiling
as she is.
always is, always has been.
"It's done, it works"
I say, enthusiastically.
Her eyes widen in surprise
"really?"
I nod
"it only took a few minutes, it should be better"

she scoops up her stuff
and we walk away from that place together
as we always used to, freshman year
when our round table sat in that exact spot.

But three years have changed a lot:
she's smiling in my presence
and we split, heading opposite directions.
her to her locker
me to the library.

I hear the faint words
"merci beaucoup"
as I pass the 3rd post

And for a second, I want to turn back.
To walk with her like I used to her
but actually talk to her.

I continue walking.

"Four years change a person"
I think as I climb every stair
as I have, for four years.
I stop for a second,
three quarters of the way up
and watch the way the sunlight drifts in from the door window.
A beauty I never would have seen then.
I would have been too entranced in her
and now I walk alone.
I would have been far too depressed by my own problems
to say what I have.
I may be a stronger person
a better person
than sitting there at that round table
but I always someone then.
Now I stand in stairwells alone

I stop halfway up 12th street
and stand there, letting cars pass me
not moving an inch.
I want to stay there
standing in the freezing rain
staring at the last curve of the road
until I fall over
frozen and soaked to the bone
waiting for someone to stop,
to get out, wrap me in a hug
and pull me to their car.
but I know  nobody will
that I'll die here
forgotten on a busy road
so I continue on
back to my empty, useless, repetitive life.

It's only 11:30 when I plug it in and go bed,
Screaming at myself, tears in my eyes
It had only been five days
and I didn't love her Monday,
I grew into it
and I thought she had too,
until those three words came from her tongue-


"I have someone"

my world shouldn't have shattered
I shouldn't have stayed up all night
screaming at myself and writhing in pain,
clutching my aching stomach.
I should have rolled over and gone to sleep
unsurprised.

I should be used to it
Used to spending nights like this
Used to being dissapointed
To having to turn the thermostat up to 75°
so I'm not cold at night.
To having to get on facebook and talk
so I don't fall asleep completely lonely.
To having to write so I can say
"I love you"
at the end of a poem
just to get those words out of my system.

He throws the booster seat on the carseat
and I squeeze in among all the crap.
I close the door and he floors it.
squealing through the grocery store parking lot
blaring tech n9ne.
he almost speeds into the blackberry bushes
but jerks the wheel to the right at the last second
and makes it feel like we're gonna flip end over end at every speed bump.
he take another quick turn, a left, at the end of the lot.
we turn left again at the four way, without stopping.
he speeds up more when goin up 7th
and the car starts smoking around the trailer park.
we reach my house and he burns out in the short stub of driveway.
I get out smiling,thank him, and fall into the ditch.
The can of monster falls out of my inner pocket, so I put it back,
dig myself out, close the door, which I hadn't successfully done
and walk toward the door.
they back out, almost hitting the apartment fence
and speed off toward his house.

this is a rare moment in my life,
my dad being who he is,
stupid thrills like this are few and far between
so I treasure each and every one of em

mio amore è forte
Mia's amore è ... sconosciuto
as I weave my way through the crowd
sometimes moving to the side,
sometimes bending at the waste to avoid arms-
as if playing playing limbo,
sometimes jumping over low limbs
(much to the disagreement pf my ankle and knee).
trying to catch my brother
who, being much smaller than me,
fits easily through the crowd
and disappears under the cookie table to her right.
She's standing with the black haired girl from the pew in front of us,
both smiling and laughing at my approach.
and when I finally find him and take him by the hand
I stop and talk to them
to her.
My Sunday was hollow in the absence of her presence.
I see her an hour each week
down around those little tables
where I often sit next to her
as I have since day one-
but this being the second Sunday of march, that didn't happen.
so I feed off the smile and the short fleeting words
and every time I pass her,
by that table
the coat closet
the nursery
the kitchen
the espresso machine-
we fit a word or two in.
At one point I join the line to take dishes to the kitchen,
hidden in the crowd
I hear her sister and her talking, about me
about me smiling at her, talking to her-
or I assume it's me, they give no name.
I smile and the person in front of me moves
but I was already turned and she doesn't notice me eavesdropping,
so I wave and continue on.
in the 20 minutes after that
she stays at the youth trip donation table
and we don't talk, since I have no money.
So I wander around instead
talking to some of her siblings or the occasional pastor.
I wonder if she sees the look in my eyes
if she can sense that when my life changes
I plan to continue coming here for one reason-
her.
I want to somehow stand up and ask her on a date.
but it is futile, what am I?
I'm poor no matter how you slice it
whether i'm in a family of four or a family of six,
and I'm nothing worth looking at either.
she is rich despite having 25 siblings,
rich enough to live in a huge house on the Hill,
to deliver snow from the mountains
and feed over 20 people.
and she is beautiful, indescribably so-
gentle and quiet, until she speaks
but her words don't define her near as much as her actions
which again assure me that she is gentle and shy
that the loudness is a facade
and a well practiced one.
she blushes when I'm near
and her words are always forced out through a smile
but I don't know whether that's just how she gets with guys
I've never seen her elsewhere.
I would tell myself to ask her out,
but she deserves better than me.

I will break down that wall in three months, if I don't before
with her
or another

The sun is out today,
the clouds are absent.
The flags flap lazily on the pole
halfway between the window
and the next brick building.

I'm listening to Korean rap
and filing through South African parliamentary reports.
others type on their keyboards,
screens facing away from me.
some look bored
and play with hair or scratch their chins.
Some talk to others loud enough to be heard through studio headphones.
Some wrinkle their foreheads or open their eyes wide, shocked at something
(each at separate times).
and four seats down, he sleeps.
headphones in his ears
Ipod on the table.
sometimes he rests his head on the table,
but he always end up leaning back
until his chair tips too far or a neighbor taps his shoulder.
He then wakes up and puts his head back on his desk.
At 2:04, his closest neighbor starts throwing spit *****,
he doesn't wake up.
I put my head down for a second
and quit looking at him.
I look back up and he's awake,
dancing to music, talking, and doing group work.

Somewhere in your lecture, you say
"you have addiction problems"

you don't know how right you are
but you don't know how strong I am.

I have fought pills, cough syrup
energy drinks and cutting
and you'll never know.

but I've won.

I may have addiction problems
but I ain't gonna let morning tea turn into one.
I trust myself more than you ever have
and that's what's helping me learn to love myself
and beat those addictions.

so drag me down all you want,
but all it's doing is helping me stand tall
(and showing me what I can defeat,
by getting me started in the first place)

You put your face up right next to mine
and scream out a list of rights I don't have:
the right to make tea in the morning
the right to stay up past 9 pm
to carry mouthwash with me
to use my own soap
to hang my coat in my closet
to spend more than eight hours away from home each day
to change plans when away from you without telling you
(no matter how small the change)
to open my windows or back door without permission
to open the back gate at all
to speak when you are not present

I want to write a ******* autobiography someday
and have more than a chapter
and that chapter ain't even here:
If I sit and think about my life,
I have no real memories with you.
The memories that count are the ones spent away from you

Playing on the playground
of the apartments by the mill with two friends
(both of which are now ******* druggies)
or sitting in the back of his aunt's station wagon
when one of em backs into the mailboxes
(at the age of six)

Building forts in the woods at four corners.
Bonfires, frog catching and golf at Anne's.
Wandering trails while camping with them.

Running through the woods with ubie
building forts from old tires, grass clippings and sticks
and playing endless games of fetch with her.
Some days we'd walk the creek back to the fern grove
some days we'd skip rocks by the "waterfall"
and some days we'd slip under the barbed wire to visit the neighbors.

The old **** lab in Carlsborg
which we labeled as "the barn" since it was one-
had plenty of small passageways that we'd play  hide and seek in.
But some days we'd get bored
so we'd go past the church to the rock quarry and climb the hills
or we'd walk the trail as far as we were willing to go
or climb over the abandoned canopy into the neighboring field
and walk over to visit the horses and goats.

Port Angeles was long walks for me,
trails dark and ominous that always led to the park
or roads that always continued on forever,
until I found that one house that I used as an anchor.
Ryland was born there
So was me, not I, but me, the beginning of ME

Then there was Taylor cutoff-
A mile back in the woods
by a junkyard
and a quarter mile from the Dungeness.
I would walk the river most days,
past the farms near the hatchery,
where the power lines always crackled
and the abandoned barns called my name.
some days I'd take the bus to Sequim, others to PA.

Dabob was a trailer that we packed full of memories-
Pulling hoses up long hills to water small trees.
loading up the truck with wood chips for the yard.
rolling boulders into trees with the tractor.
Taking Ryland to the ER for croup.
And fitting three people into a five by ten room to sleep.
not to mention:
bonfires, fireworks, bobcats, mountain lions, 3 cults and *** farmers

This is the ****** though, Edmonds-
city life, and I'm ******* loving it.
I want to write myself a life, father
and I know where to do it
and how
and it ain't here under your oppression.

Three months and the story changes

They round the tip of the hill jogging-
Him; 58, smiling, cheering her on.
Her; a student, beautiful in every regard-
words, body, face and mind,
an asthmatic
one of the worst cases I've seen.
She's choking on something,
or perhaps, the absence of something.
tears are welling up in her eyes and occasionally letting themselves go

Her name is strength

fighting to climb that last bit of hill without falling over
telling him every time he asks if she needs to stop
that she doesn't.

She crosses the line and we go inside
she falls asleep for a few minutes sitting there on the bleachers
letting her breathing return to normal.

There are two tonight-
two ambulances,
red lights illuminating the dark neighborhood
as they make their weekly trip to the old folks home
at the end of the street.
This could be the end of eight decades for someone
for a neighbor of mine.
Could be one less crazy old woman
walking down the street shouting at the neighborhood dogs
(and mailboxes).
The lights fade from view as they cross 9th.
A tear falls to my desk
as I wonder
"who was that?
what ended tonight?"
and as I lay down and roll over to stare at the wall
I imagine who they could have been.

She sits there
fifteen feet from me
alone.
tears are frozen in her eyes
have been for a few days.
I know how she gets,
I used to wipe away those tears.
But now I just sit here and pretend not to notice
because she told me to.
And that's what hurts-
not that she told me to-
but that I can't disobey
and go sit there.

the absence of lamplight reveals the world behind
the usually covered french doors;
as the world becomes darker the sky glows purple
an eerie bruise
frozen into being.
streetlights and porchlights add their own interpretations
on how trees should be covered
and the pines, green in daylight
turn into purple, black, green and orange towers
hiding the hospital below
which shares their transformation with the light from the apartments

It feels too early for them to be playing the ******* Wii
and I realize I can't even see them
but I feel each of them step on my head
hear each of them yell at me to wake up
that I've been asleep too long.
I roll over and try to my eyes
but realize they're already open, and have been.
I unclench the blanket
from my stomach
which is screaming near as much as my head.
And I quit blaming the headache and stomachache on them-
they are fast asleep
and I'm just hallucinating their presence
and 6 in the morning
because those aren't dreams
they are hallucinations.
Or so I find when I take my phone out of my pillow
(beating it on the ground because i can't find the end of the case)
to see why my phone alarm hasn't gone off.
my phone says it is 2:30
and I realize that I set the clock three and a half hours ahead
in my half lucid state.
I stand,
separating myself, in a less than graceful manner
from my brothers carpet.
I stumble through the doorway
lit by the lamp he always keeps on
through the dark hallway
and into the bathroom.
I flip on the light and shut and lock the door in one movement.
my eyes are tired and bloodshot
my head and stomach hurt.
I let a small stream of cold water go
and splash it over my face and open eyes.
that does nothing.
I through more water over my front.
no effect.
I try to scream but no sound comes out.
I open the the door
letting the lock pop loudly enough to deserve a four hour lecture.
I'm tired of lectures.
I stumble back to my makeshift floor bed
and try to lay down.
my stomach complains
I can't bend all the way.
I pick up my blankets and pillows
(silently screaming)
and carry them to the small couch.
I flip the tv stand over and throw grandma's blankets and pillows
I'm done giving a ****.
I throw my bed down and lie there.
for two and a half hours I try to sleep.
I'm too tall
I decide around five.
I stand
throw the tv stand
all the other pillows and the phonebook
the other way
and lay down on the large couch.
it takes me fifteen minutes to fall asleep.
forty five minutes later
I wake up to him screaming at me.

I sit here
drinking six bag Bengal Spice tea
listening to Pandora
while my brother eats his breakfast behind me.
The song changes and I recognize it,
a little too well;
One Saturday at the Sequim food bank,
the only week he ever had me man the meat freezer
and not the bread room or dairy room.
I had to sneeze
So I took the back hallway
to stand among the shelves of toilet paper and soap.
She was taking a load out front-
soap and cans from the canning room.
She was singing this song
didn't see me standing on the other side of that shelf.
She had been the reason I started volunteering here,
or half the reason;
I wanted to volunteer and do something fulfilling
but I also wanted to learn her name.

This is one of the only times in my life
where I acted on impulse-
I started singing too,
my deep bass and her soprano creating a melody
that makes me want to skip this song
because it isn't the same.
But I listen to remember her reaction-
instead of walking away, stopping or sighing-
she kept singing, laughing just a little bit
letting me hear the smile on her lips.

She finished grabbing what she needed
and walked away, still laughing
still smiling as she walked into the hallway
(which was the only lit place back here)
and kept singing, even as she sat back at the front desk.
I returned to my position a minute later-
15 feet from her.

In ten weeks of volunteering there
that was the most we ever spoke to each other
and I wouldn't wish it any other way.

I walk in
and throw my faded, ripped, three year old, coca cola pajama pants
toward the tub
just soft enough to miss the shower curtain.
I close the door and take off my shirt,
undo my belt, step out of my pants
and just stand there and look at myself:
my hair is a dull brown, and messed up, but I don't care tonight.
My pupils are dilated; a few too many ibuprofen.
my nose still looks half broken on the side opposite my scar.
my left eye has bags, as it always has,
as does my right- between the merging of two faint bruises;
one from a Nerf bullet impact turned sty I had removed,
the other from a zit which overtook my cheek a few weeks back.
my forehead is wrinkled prematurely
my unshaven chin and scalp both growing grays.
my collarbones stick out enough for me to fit my fist in when I lean forward.
my neck widens in the back in a way that looks unnatural.
my biceps, chest and stomach are all muscular, firm;
the result of two workouts every day.
But it is my leg that shows my pain,
shows the strength I still tell myself I have
or rather the strength of the weakness I sometimes let take over in it's place-
knee to ankle;
fresh cuts, all bleeding
each a quarter inch apart.
not the most I've ever had, but the longest stretch of my body I've ever covered completely.
and I don't even remember why.

The rain would usually bother me
but today I'm tired
and sickness and intoxication are both wearing off
so each little droplet does nothing to phase me
from my half awake daydreaming state
staring into others faces,
just aware enough to turn when they turn.
Most days I would study each line-
the smiles, the wrinkles, the way their hair parts
just trying to understand each of them.
Today I'm looking just to look at something moving
so I don't look at the concrete
and fall asleep, bored.

The three other classes on this end of campus
are each let out early
and file through this bottleneck
quietly enough that I only notice the last few as they walk by.
She looks up from the ground and sees me.
Saying nothing, she smiles in a way that makes me wonder if she's looking past me,
I look, there's nothing there.
I smile back for a second, as well as I can.

Later I catch her smile again from a crowd in the hall.

I stop for a second,
not physically, I keep waking.
but, I keep my eyes there, smiling.
she's already looked away, so I don't worry.
It comes harder to me today- studying a face,
and her's is one I've never been able to figure out,
so I give up and keep walking.

Am I a friend to her,
or something more?
Am I what I wanted to be
years ago-
A thought in her head before she falls asleep?

Or am I just broken because I think this hard about a simple smile?

I've been out of it lately
been thinking less
sleeping more.
goin to bed at 8pm
waking up at 1pm.
I know it ain't the fact that I'm sick
it's all the cough syrup I've been drinking.
never been high on anything
but the world seems... softer, now.
I'm halfway though that huge bottle,
don't know if I'm gonna miss it when it's gone.
I've told myself that I'm not gonna buy more,
but I'm not so sure

We're standing in the cold, rainy silence
when he opens and closes the door without a sound
and stands on the foot brush behind me
leaning against the garbage can
that always seems to have a backpack behind it.
Without a smile or a hint that he's going to speak
he says,"sup" in a fading, worried tone
speaking to me but looking away.
she takes three steps and wraps her arms around him
smiling at me over his shoulder as if to say- something,
I'm not sure what.
but I smile back, and take a few steps backward
in an attempt to be there, but only on the fringe.
A small circle forms around them,
nobody speaking for a few minutes
and then everybody splits into their own conversations
except me
and as soon as the bell rings, we all walk off
they find each other again and walk together
and I smile for her.
She was like my sister once, for just a second

1.
outside;
the sky is dark blue
fading into black shadow
behind the Sequim Safeway.
raindrops are illuminated
momentarily in the half-light
lingering below the light pole
that rises above the window-line

2.
Some dance mix
of a Kenny G. song
echoes through the building
landing even here,
in this room inside a room.
the abandoned cup
of mountain dew
shakes suddenly and spills
on the Clallam county classified page
on top of the toilet paper holder.

3.
Ten steps
covers the empty monster can
held in dry hands
in a fine layer of dew.
headlights reveal
an ever-present purple tint
to the cloudless sky,
covered only slightly
by the exhaust
which dissipates quickly
in the warmer than usual
humid air.

4.
Twenty nine miles-
the lights of the city soon disappear
and only the houses with porch lights
even seek to confirm their existence.
fog covers the asphalt
halfway back,
the world twists at every turn,
bad eyes and old age to blame.

5.
Fifteen minutes later;
rain covered doors slam
and soon after, so does another door.
but the rain is not forgotten-
it lingers in dry pathways on the skin,
tasting less organic,
but comforting just as much

2 PM:
I'm brushing my teeth
been awake two hours
cause I had no reason to wake up earlier.
Thinking it would be nice
if someone texted me
wanting to hang out.
thinking it  would be great
if she texted me
for any reason at all.
but nobody will
cause nobody cares
and I sleep for 14 hours a night on the weekends
knowing i'll go nowhere when awake.

My phone vibrates
and I tell myself
"it ain't her, that's for sure"
but  it is
with a simple
"hey :)"
i respond
she answers me with
"I was thinking about you today"
And for a second I smiled wider than I had in months
But she had only tried a tea I'd recommended.
I tried to keep talking
but she was waiting for a lunch date
and instead of saying what I was thinking
(that i'd never been on a real date,
never eaten with anyone other than family
and family friends.
never sat anywhere waiting for anyone
because nobody ever shows up for me
and I'm not allowed to go anywhere anyway)
I said
"I hope you have a good time"

No response


10 PM:
I watch her get on facebook
and wait 15 minutes before messaging her
"hey, how're you"
she take eight minutes
to say she's too good to be true.
I say
"that's great :D what's goin on?"
her response is simple
"I don't know how to explain"

I leave her alone
and we don't talk
but I sit there and stare at the ceiling
crying without realizing
wishing I had been a part of her being that great
wishing I had been a part of anyone being that great
But I hadn't and I haven't ever.

But what am I to her
when she texts me  
(something only my ex has ever done)
and then someone changes her day
someone who isn't me
and then she won't talk to me

The answer is one I can't wrap my mind around
one I don't want to accept
and maybe that's why I'm crying:
I'm just a friend to her
and I want to be more
but I never will be.

I'm just a friend
and that's how she can go from thinking about me and texting me
to not talking to me
in eight hours

I wonder
as I sit bathed in the half light from the lonely bulb left on in the kitchen,
the dog the only other person awake;
does she feel anything for me,
any bit of what I feel for her?
am I even a thought in her head before she falls asleep?
like she often is for me.
Am I anything to her?
She is the one I avoid writing about
for fear that she will see it, she this.
this is only the second poem I've written about her.
but, wherever you are at this moment,
I want you to know,
before I go to sleep
that tonight, like most nights
you will appear, even just momentarily in my thoughts before i fall asleep
The time I save for positive thoughts
and hopes for the future.
and that hope is simple:
that you're hoping that I'm thinking about you as I'm falling asleep

Somehow my schedule comes up as a discussion
as the four of us sit around filling out thank you cards
"I don't understand why he did that, filled up that spot
where he could sit in a room with his closest friends"
says the boy in the corner of the room
where the slight bit of sunlight in the room doesn't reach.
She's stays silent next to me
but across the room, where the sunlight dies on his shoulder
I can see his lips forming the same thing i've heard a million times
"Why did you do that, Brandon?
why you did you fill up the time sitting there with your closest friends".
I don't even let him speak
"Those aren't my friends"
I say adamantly
"Other than you three, that room is completely acquaintances or enemies.
I sit there in the corner, shaking in my chair
as my ex and her friends glare at me.
And you're telling me that's a better spent half hour than doing what i love?"
they hear little of that and respond quickly, with
"Never saw you two go out, you never did".
I'm shaking now, *******, what business is this to them?
she talks quickly next to me
"I remember that, they did"
nobody questions her directly, but I'm not done-
"No, we never went on a date
she kissed me on the last day of school and it went from there
But it felt fake.
even when she said she loved me more than chocolate.
It kept feeling like a game, like she was playing with me.
And then she just disappeared
for a month, a full month, she was gone.
and then she broke up with me
and as soon as school started she began to erase me.
So, no we never actually went out
I don't even know if we were ever really a couple,
But those eight kisses I managed to find in that month
were the closest physical contact anyone has ever made with me.
so when I see her in a room now, I have to look away
so I don't look at her,
study her face
and find faces I no longer know glaring at my face.
So-
to answer your original question,
I scheduled the poetry club on thursday
because Mr. Pierson has mock trial on friday"

And tonight I sit here in front of thiis screen
wondering what actions my mind will let my body perform
wondering what thoughts my body will let my mind think.
this is my downfall, the reason I will be trampled
by my peers as they become real people.
more than the way I have been bred;
to have no opinions
to not  talk
to have no life.
more than that intraceable bit of laziness;
this is my downfall
The fact that I've always been two people,
a body and a mind.
And they are  always fighting,
themselves as much as each other.
both are like a transplanted *****,
fighting the other
but i have no medication.
so most nights i just sit here and watch me fight with myself.
neither ever wins
and sometimes I think half a person is better than both.
This has taken place forever
since i was first tall enough to see my ugly face in a mirror
and my mind revolted from it
and so for every second since
my mind has turned my body toward the mirror
and my mind has turned my body the other way.
but neither love themselves:
my body has left countless scars on itself
and my mind screams at itself so loudly sometimes
that other thoughts are impossible.
This is why I'm broken
why I spend five hours awake just sitting
with a pile of homework
that grows
and grows
and grows
sitting in front of me.
and i stare at it
as three wars continue within me.
I stay still so as not to wake the armies
so I don't lose
but the piles growing
and I'm losing as i sit here

I've been seven months
I've posted Forty-Two poems here
Forty-Two pieces of me
Thirty-Four of those have trended.
I have had
ten-thousand-sixty-five views
and three-hundred reactions
In only seven months
thank you,
every one.

I didn't recognize him until I walked by and looked back;
Standing straight up
he towers over me
by a head or more.
his voice was less hoarse than i'd ever heard it
and he had a small smile under his mustache
as he said my name
and asked
"how's it goin?"
I smiled back
"pretty good, you?"
our conversation didn't last
half as long as it should have
and i felt rude
breaking away and walking off,
waving at his daughter and son-law
as they sped by me
and around him
honking and laughing
as they flipped me off
so i returned the gesture,
and walked off laughing.
down the road
down the hill
thinking I should have talked longer
I owed it to him;
I've known him six months or so
but I've known his kids for five years
and his family is mine-
he is my father
just as much,
if not more
than my actual father.
and I actually like this man-
I worry about his health
on a daily basis.
but seeing him standing straight up
and hearing him speak in a clear voice
is a comfort,
so i smile as i regret not talking more

When I was younger
I realized that if I only liked one girl at a time
only thought about one
I became obsessive and never ended up with her
lately i've realized-
If I think about several girls at once
and tell myself
I'll give the thoughts of the others up
If I ever
end up with any of them-
I don't get obsessive,
I get confused
but confused is not obsessive
confusion limits how extreme I allow my emotions to become
but having any feelings at all
for a girl
is enough for me to fall for her if it ever comes to that point
but tracking multiple lives
and often getting so extremely confused
leaves me unable
to break through my shyness
and anxiety
to take a chance with any of them.
Just because I write about other girls
don't assume i'm not thinking about you
you're here
I just find it impossible to write about people who may read
what i've written about them.
I write about you
in my head
but rarely write any of it down
sometimes I hope you do the same

right now-
I hope you read your name out of this
and aren't offended

The title comes back to me
and suddenly
at 1:38 in the morning
I have the urge to hear that old song
that she still tells me after listening to
(leaving a ;) that always confuses me)
since that was our song,
or rather,
my song when I could think of nothing but her
my song for two and a half years
my song for every second she avoided me

and then everything got better
and somehow, in some conversation
I mentioned this song
and it became ours,
or rather
hers for every broken heart
hers for every second spent alone
hers for every confused emotion that she harbored

and I helped sail away.

and at the end of every verse of this song
i smile and cringe simultaneously
as her name is said
and I wonder how she really feels
wonder if she's spent as many long nights as me;
lying awake
hoping somebody would come along
somebody perfect, who cares more than anyone ever has

wonder if she's ever thought my name
in a moment like that
wonder if she's ever thought my name
ever

I need to stop wondering
and ask

glare at me all you want grandma
but you know i'm just showing him I'm entitled to a life
and i'm tired of the lies
and shaking till i can't stand whenever he comes near.
tired of the misery and the boredom and fear.
tired of coming home at three
tired of having to hide the fact that i've learned to be me.

we need to stand up
and break off all these pairs of handcuffs
he's put on us over the years
before I get the **** out of here
and settle myself down thirty miles and a ferry
away from this place
where i don't have to see his face
or hear his words
which drown the world.

so *******, im gonna take a ****
at one-thirty in the ******* morning cause i'm tired of this.

Tired of you making yourself casserole at midnight
just to avoid the fright
of him slamming the door open
to scream about how you're wasting power using the oven
to make food he won't even eat.
first thing i'm gonna delete
as soon as i plant roots someplace else?
the memories of my own ******* father as the devil and this prison our hell.

we've gonna stand up and show him we're right
cause i'm tired of always losing the fight
and having to take a **** in the middle of the ******* night
to avoid his sight.

you're own son:
42 years and you're **** well done.
My father:
17 years of drifting farther
from him
on his own whim.

lets stand up
while our mind are still focused on this bump
that seems sewed
into our road

Over the last few days
I have constructed a new basic description of myself:
I am the seventeen year old
poet with a white beard and baggy, bruised-looking eyes
who only ever uses his left hand when playing badminton.