I type in that old address
expecting google not to show a house
to show the empty lot
that from what i heard
was the result of putting a dishwasher
into the kitchen
and causing complete septic failure
that flooded that entire uptown PA acre.
But, it flies me there
and I cry a little
because it's an old picture-
the house is still there,
just as i remember it;
an empty lot to the side,
the dilapidated apartment in the back yard,
the shed at the end of the driveway
(which was just a couple of cement tracks
slightly thinner than the pathfinder tires)
the apple and pie cherry trees we used to climb.
the alley in the back
where we used to skip rocks
and run from the neighborhood dogs (and cats)
looks the same as well,
every car the same,
every empty house still empty,
every tipped trashcan still being tipped each week.
I go down every street I used to walk,
they're all the same,
the bus stop is still where it was
the trails are just as long and dark as they ever were
and each yellow yard looks just as it always did in midsummer.
the ponds in the park are still the same color
with the same algae growing in them
and the same overgrowth hideaways around them.
A mile down the road;
the mini-mart where I bought gum when i had money
hasn't changed a bit,
even the pink umbrellas are still in front of the smoothie bar
but, across the street
the used book store that i would get lost in is gone
and from there i notice subtle changes:
the blackberry bushes by the middle school,
that mom made multiple cobblers from, are gone,
the maternity store moved,
the shed that my stepdad first told us would be our new house,
(before showing us this place)
has been torn down, or fell over
(as i assume it did),
and it doesn't end there,
I practiced my eye in the small details of this small ****** of the world
even though i never talked to anyone
in all the hours i spent walking.
But i guess I remember so well,
because, four-and-a-half years later
I still consider that house home.
that house where my brother was born,
where i first went without my glasses, and liked it
where I was first given the freedom of a bus pass
and permission to leave the house,
where i had my first (and only) overnighter
where i first became addicted to cleaning
where i've packed so many memories
that i can understand why the sewage line broke
sometime after that picture was taken



©Brandon Webb
2012

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.

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.

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.

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

I stumble into the dark house
holding a clothes basket and a backpack
and marvel at how strange it is to be back.
after two weeks in a warm place
my short-covered legs are cold enough
that i'm fearing mid-summer frostbite,
and in the quest to prevent that,
i see the small things i'd never notice-
everything vaccuumed, swept, mopped and washed,
all electronics- off,
my brothers room- clean,
mine- barren,
the heaters- dusted,
cobwebs- gone,
bathrooms rugs and towels- matching,
the mirror- clean of toothpaste splatter,
and the bathroom counter empty.
I smile as i change into pants
thinking about how empty this house is
without me;
how empty it will be-
without me



©Brandon Webb
2012

He says
"we're close enough, lets just go"
and i agree, reluctantly
so we take a right
after we climb the hill and take the trail.
we end up on the main road
and walking along the white line
on the right side
we pass a bus stop and apartment complex
before we cross
walk a block
and take two more trails.

he knocks
each knock lessening in volume.
she opens the door
ten years old and wearing a blue dress
her six year old brother charges past to hug me
and pulls me inside
but he's the only one truly greeting me
I can see i'm not truly welcome
not today
when they form the
"guests can only stay in the living room" rule
just for us.

we have a good time
as we always do
but i catch a couple glares
even as we all dance across the living room floor
to some nightcore song.

All because of some Facebook message
that in it's simplicity meant:

"people are *******
but there's in a beauty in you that's only in you.
a beauty made when chopping onions and potatoes
for some type of bean cookies
while screaming at your siblings in a mix of spanish and english,
a smile on your lips
even as you drag a protesting six year old
across wood floors and carpets
to sit him down in his room alone
for doing backflips off the couch and into the shoe rack.
there's nothing more beautiful than lips stretched across teeth
in just that way,
the skin around your eyes gently wrinkling a little
and your eyes themselves open, clear and aware.
that is where the strongest beauty lies,
in a smile
and yours appears in the most beautiful of places
and that to me is truly mesmerizing"

I summarized that thought to her, greatly
I apologized at the end
I even said (truthfully)
that she is a great friend
and a wonderful sister.

but i keep catching two or three glares on me
as i sit on the couch
her brother flopping around on my feet
glaring at his seven year old sister standing on the couch
behind me, laughing.

"this is my real home"
I think, for a second
as i always do when i'm here
but they glare at me, quietly, secretly
saying that it isn't
at least, temporarily
and I hope this bubbles over fast
but i'm glad my words are bubbling
she deserved them
for chopping onions on the table
and having to scream at five wild siblings
while their mother works.

she works so hard,
and her smiling face while doing so
is more beautiful than even i can tell her.

most nights I'll say to myself
"someday somebody will find her who sees how beautiful she is"
some nights I tell myself
"get off you lazy *** and take a chance, you're already here"
But today I'm just being glared at for trying




©Brandon Webb
2012

I spent over a hundred dollars
just on chocolate
for her
last year

every once in a while
i'd surprise her
with one of those organic peanut butter bars
she liked

i'd buy em from aldriches
during photography
or video productions

never told her where i got them
because they gave her something
to depend on me for

i never tasted a single bit of that chocolate
i haven't been aldriches in months

and i haven't gotten one of those thankful hugs
since that last one
in july
that was half kiss, half hug
and less thankful, more lovestruck
but also silent, tear filled, melancholy, foreboding

that was after i bought her reeses,
the only time e ever went to qfc together

i don't buy chocolate anymore
i've saved alot of money lately

but i've lost so many hugs,
avoid half this town
and no one relying on me like that

she was my life
it's time for a new one



©Brandon Webb
2012

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

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 always end up like this
no matter what type of event i'm at
sitting, alone, in the back
but this time, there
on the church basketball court
converted into a dancefloor
just as roughly as i also was converted
into a church dance attendee
in dark grey corduroys
and a crimson dress shirt
(missing a collar button)
not to mention a shave
(far too thorough, as i always am)
and a haircut by my uncles hand-
it was there,
that i was choking back tears,
tears caused by glancing up momentarily,
javing five or more beautiful girls
meet my eyes, and smile invitingly
(telling me to stand)
but still being unable to drag myself out of that chair
and walk over to them.
an inability caused by her,
the one i still love(d)
wherever she happens to be.
but, this inability to move
is not her fault.
we're over
and i'm a free man,
so i make my mind up,
wipe my eyes,
and stand;
rising to look at the faces
of the two who are telling me
to walk, to tap, to ask, to dance
and
without a word
i walk into that crowd
leaving them behind.
but
she's still here.
and, keeping that in mind
i enjoy myself
but every face
every conversation
dissolves,

as my footsteps do-

as the music does-

at the end of each song





©Brandon Webb
2012

1
light falls in river
to red head
red ear
creating glares
of open spaces
in the shaking airwaves
of tapping shoe
slice paper
slice language
cut
to the core
of this planet
where solid liquids churn

2
repeat, go!
Slice into your  mind
Write the outline
Of everything…
Something…
This…
I think
What is left
when everything
disappears
into
something
that has never been
like a river
born from
phoenix ashes
rushing,
thundering
as it strikes, burns,
chars the unyielding
earth
the imprint hinting
at the boots
of an unwelcome hiker




3
(dreams of a wheelchair bound germophobe)

each finger map
creates a face
a person
with cheeks
rosy and full
like plump
grapes, falling
from the
wispy clouds
into footprints,
memories
of what?
Somewhere
A closed door
Hollow, but solid
Rat bitten,
The vermin, running
*******
Stinking of disease
As they squeak
Dying, in the wine
Spilled
In the corner of
Damp cellar


4
sandpaper chipping
contrasted fingernail
pale on brown
the world turns
upside-down
black powder
pencil shavings
fall
somewhere
without door
hallway, walls
floor, ceiling or..
no, forget it
there is nothing there
a black hole
against
untouched
white wall
her face
eyes hiding
behind
the world
as she runs
into the ocean
holding
fire
she discovered fire
the fire of…
of
nothing
of, afterthoughts
a period falls
from blue line
expanding
to form
entrance
to
sewers
rats with red eyes
stare out
that smell,
their breath…
mouthwash
and air freshener
too expensive
to buy
so
in revenge,
they fall
from an inside
pocket
and again,
you are alone
in a room
full of
eyes, which
lead
below,
above
and the world
turns, twists-
the horizon
becoming
needle-point
as they draw
blood


5
puzzle pieces
fall,
crumble-
sand sound
an ocean wave,
the tapping
of a blind cane
a language
unidentifiably
foreign
each word
burning
outlines
into…
what is an
outline?
A silhouette?
A silhouette…
There is nothing left
But a reminder
Of the past-
Filing cabinet
Names
Arranged
Tab by tab,
Letters go down
Stair-steps
Of and unending
Case
Trumpet case?
Violin case?
Or case of words-
Arranged
Letter by letter
Each starting
With “dear…”
Before they end
With blank edge
Discolored
And bent
A broken
Finger
Outlined by
Screaming recipient
Hotel bellhop
Misplaced bags
In the trash chute
And they slide
Into an unlit
Hole
They have yet
To install lights
And show the
Path
Which,
As a child,
The follower
Will not follow
But
Never will they
Know if their
Footsteps lead
Forward or sideways
Through
Night-forest
Of concrete





6
silence:
the existence
of nothingness.
Nothingness
Permits nothing
To be
Permits no one
To see
And in the shadows of un-being-
A sea
Of crashing waves
Colored
Pine needle
To
Watered blood
Shapes ebbing
And waning
In
And
Out
Of focus-
Giving
The effect
Of loose
Fitting
Glasses on
Someone
Otherwise
Engaged-
A jogger
Whose feet
determine
path and
distance-
whose minds
eye is the
only eye
working
ever.
Glasses
Fall forward
And are
Crunched
Underfoot.
Shadows
go black
again



7
nodding
and sniffling-
balding head
shining back
is field of
water-lapped
river-stones-
singular
tide
washing
them
bare-
gl­are
like
windshield
thrown
at highway
speed
onto
midsummer
tropical
gravel road.
gravel
under boots
sounds
eerily
similar
to hard
cereal
in
slime-chunk
milk,
each
grain,
or chunk
is its own
universe
ecosystem-
unaware
of the
rotten
space
in which
it is implanted-
a bullet
into a
tree-
not
piercing
but
remaining
forgotten
to rust
into
non-being
until
only rust
fragments
remain,
to be
scattered
and re-grow
forming new
shapes,
abstract
shapes
tilting
and
twisting
above,
below-
be­low
blue
boundaries
hinting at…
leftover
unwanted
but
envied
in form
by
lesser
beings,
bottom
dweller,
memories
of
ancient times


8
administration
location,
power
fall, topple
off, of your tower
into- elsewhere
but- where?
Does the world
Offer a choice
Of where we
Disappear
To?
Is so
That is
The only
Choice
Given-
Truly given
Upon inspection
Of society
And life,
The structure
Of the life
Of the living
And
The dead,
The dead
The living
Are dying
And in time-
Become-
The dead,
In piles
Of dusty
Tomes-
The past
Was once
Called now,
And now,
The future-
In only
The tick time
Of a second-
Now, will
Be long past-
In two,
The future
Also will be
Past.
Time has
Shifting names
Which change
Faster than
It passes




©Brandon Webb
2012

Shoes squeaking, finger skin frostbitten
Short ebony haircut bobbing earthquake
As he fills himself into my shadow
Decrepit public shed, well worn bus stop
Gurgled greeting, shoving, shouting, calm peace
Take my seat, damp bench, leave brother standing

Rain rides four faces, outside, far from me
Forming veins, channels and exits, swiftly
In rush for concrete sidewalk stopping point
Smiles form themselves, response to tickling

created by a dozen droplets of a storm




©Brandon Webb
2012

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

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

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'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

Pomegranate frozen yogurt
and a metal chair
outside alderwood mall
alone

wonderful combination-
in midsummer,
not in mid-autumn

But-
watching frozen people walk by
to smooth jazz
(coming from one of these stores-
Godiva? Panera bread?)
under cold blue skies
frozen sunlight
and the memory
of their own breath's fleeing warmth-
is relaxing



©Brandon Webb
2012

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 turned back
to see if anyone was there
with her
in the back of the bus
when she started talking.
there wasn't,
there were only two people
besides us
and the driver,
and they were in front of me,
the seat in front of me,
three seats from the front.
She was three seats from the back,
and talking to her mom on the phone
in a wavering tone i once knew by heart.
But
i have to look
to even tell that that voice is hers

she stops talking, meets my stare, coldly
and then, as me and the other two
exit onto the mid-morning fog-covered street
she stands and follows,
three blocks from her stop

i try starting a conversation
with the familiar face walking near me.
he answers- it's awkward and silent,
except for the sound of her
crunching dead puddles and flattening grass,
staring blankly through my back.

He runs the last bit,
She keeps her pace.
I round the fence.
She Stares
I reach for the doorknob,
it's locked.
I knock
She Stares.
I stand there, waiting,
and meet her stare.
She rounds the corner,
passes the jeep, the truck,
crosses the street,
keeps her eyes on me.
they're empty, emotionless, foreign,
so are mine;
standing on the doorstep she never stood on,
knocking on the door she never stood knocked on,
meeting those once familiar eyes
in a final, ear splittingly silent goodbye




©Brandon Webb
2012

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

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

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 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

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?

even i will miss this place
i think to myself
as we separate our belongings

into two piles
there in the dining area
where i used to play with Ryland.
Everyone, (other than him, being only three)
has tears in their eyes
except me
but i’m still sad
not because we’ll never come back here
but because that very fact
doesn’t sadden me like the rest
even though i will miss it
but i like moving on-
i can’t stay anywhere too long.
But, i do cry-
when he runs down that hill
like he has a million times before-
a huge smile on his face
as he avoids every memorized bump and hole
and i know this is the last time-
last time to experience all the memories
we packed into that trailer-
into that farm,
where fear left us restricted and regulated.
But i pack the truck
and disregard memories,
never stopping to remember anything-
not the bonfires by the big log,
rolling boulders into dead plum trees with the tractor,
picking huge buckets of blackberries for homemade cobblers
from bushes that have been gone for months,
pulling the hose up the hill from the pump house
to water everything,
flicking mosquitoes off the screen door
at midnight, with a crowd gathered to watch,
or the smell of a sulfur shower before church.
i stop to remember nothing
by unintentionally avoiding him most of all-
more than memories, or tears
i’m avoiding the man who was my father
for four and a half years-
who we lived in four houses, a motel, and a tent with-
because if i think too long about him
all the memories i’ve left behind will come back
and as we finish,
say goodbye,
and give him parting hugs
even i really start crying-
and then we drive off,
for the last time
and he’s standing there-
crying, but not waving
and we all wave though the tears,
through the car window
the fence and the garden.
I lost a home
and a father today
and i can still barely cry





©Brandon Webb
2012

she had mornings
(still does)
where she'd not talk to anybody
so i'd get on tumblr and check,
finding the familiar phrase
she used on these days
"i'm such a *****"

and between classes
i would find her and wrap her in my arms
and tell her she wasn't
she never believed me,
always disagreed with me

so isn't it ironic
that those words-
"you aren't a *****"
are the ones i hold on to now
everytime i start thinking she is
i tell myself i was right,
that she's only had a hard life
and thinks differently than me

but then she cuts me off walking in the hall,
she gives me emotionless stares on the bus
(where i sit 8 seats farther from her than ever before)
and i almost call her a *****
but i hold off, knowing i was right

i walk an extra three blocks
to and from the convenience store
to avoid her house.
i spend lunch in the library
to avoid hearing her voice.
i walk home from the elementary school
to avoid her presence.
and i don't go swimming
with my brothers boyscout troop
to avoid the memory
of the first time she said she loved me.
but when i'm about to call her a *****
because avoiding her
only makes me remember what she did to me-
i stop
because i know i was right

those words were probably the reason
she left for the last time
the reason she says nothing to me now
becasue she always believed she was right.
i only hope i'm right,
but i try so hard to convince myself
because i don't want to, someday
get so ******* that i scream at her
that she's a *****.
because that will break her
and she'll think she's right
that all her insecurities and anxieties
are true
are righteous,
and she'll be hurt forever
thinking that she's horrible.
she isn't

she isn't a *****
just misunderstood by herself.

when i look at her,
i feel no anger
and i supress the sadness
which may create anger.
anger only fuels my thinking that word
and i can't bring myself to hurt her

no matter how much she hurt me.

not a *****...
not
a
*****




©Brandon Webb
2012

I know how I see myself
but
I can't stop myself from wondering

who am I in the eyes of everyone else?

when someone asks me a question
during a discussion in CWP
and everyone hears me
as i stumble over my words
in the center of that quiet room,
trying to answer the simple question-
"how does that makes you feel?"
and i wonder,
how does my stumbling and stuttering
make them feel,
about me?
does it change anything?

Or when i go to bed
thinking about
the conversations i've had during the day
and wondering how those friends see me.

I've never asked,
never had the guts.

My self esteem has always been low
I've always hated myself,
Sometimes i just hope
the smiles are true,
the friendships, true.

I've never asked

Who am I?




©Brandon Webb
2012

I look out the window
Into the mirror
reflecting the window
which reflects
the vague forms
of trees we’ve passed,
and every fifty feet or so-
another power-line.
Sitting there
Watching the reflection
Of the reflection
Of those trees-
I saw me
When we passed
Through shadows.
And,
When we passed fields
The reflected reflection
Was that of clouds,
And when tall trees
Cast shadows
From our other side,
I saw myself
Swimming through clouds
In that blue sky

©Brandon Webb
2012

She introduced to me a new type of shaking
somewhere between
anger, hatred, sadness, regret and love.
It's only ever present
in her presence.
Only absent
when we're in the same room



©Brandon Webb
2012

we circle the mall endlessly
meeting any female eye
hoping she looks back
we're desperate,
we're trying.
but everytime
someone meets our eyes
we look down
unsure of what the hell to say;
so we walk away.
back to the same stores,
same areas
we've already been.
and then,
we stop for a second
somewhere around JC Penny
and ask each other
"what the hell would we say anyway?"
and both our answers are
"i wouldn't be able to talk".
but we keep walking,
keep gesturing everytime we see a girl
but never walk up to her,
never say anything.
for two hours we do this,
reminding us both of how shy we are,
but we still have a good day.
I just hope next time i'll say something,
because i want to hold a passing face,
not a girl i already know.
there's no chance of ruining a friendship
with someone you barely know.
i need love without taking a chance
but i'm too shy to take the chance
of talking to an unknown girl
and hoping for love
just to avoid loving
a girl i can't take the chance of losing.
i need someone,
i just can't jump




©Brandon Webb
2012

Sometimes it seems like the only emotion
I ever see 100% of the time
is nervousness.
I have become a master at finding
those little nervous ticks-
chewed fingernails
face scratching
the occasional repetition of one word or another
the occasional downward glance.
sometimes i wonder
if I'm making this girl
(whichever girl)
tick like a clock about ready to explode
and leave it's arms loosing lying upon me
it's innards lying there in front of me
the inner workings, the inner thoughts exposed.
Or if her mind is just wandering to others
and i'm just the one sitting here ,
hoping to find a clock,
never knowing if i have,
my heart beating violently in my chest,
my nails already bitten to nubs,
small holes on my face and neck
where I've scratched the hair off
my hair pushed and pulled
this way and that by nervous hands,
my head **** near exploding with the thought
"opposites attract, but i need a ******* clock
before i myself explode
leaving my arms hanging loose in the air
and my innards raw and exposed
for more than just a lovers eyes"




©Brandon Webb
2012

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"

1
she taps he hand, twice.
across the room,
he stares, thinking
into empty air.
others, scattered
tap pencils or fingers
on desktops, booktops
and phone keyboards

the balding man
with black hair:
combed backward
and to differing angles
so that his head is split
vertically-
stands, above the room
his back turned

his words,
meant for the crowd
reverberate only
along classes fringe
but still take precedence
over nothing
even to them-
academics, outcasts


2
back of the room
reveals everything
to the observer
trying to see

blue-eyed brunette
glares vengefully
at no one,
just to glare

he looks up once
to watch
as another
pulls up
drooping jeans.
she laughs
at conversation
unmeant for,
and inaudible
to her


3
today, she smiles
and lets her lip fall
begging, like a puppy
But when they
lose eye contact,
she glares, again

he leaves footprints
on parallel desk
from lounging
then fires himself
to his feet
using stored energy,
and sugar from gum

words bounce along
the walls in the back,
and isolated eyes peer
towards the screen
but hide the fact
that they care


4
two week vacation
has left their minds
full of everything
except math,
so they listen
to him, while he speaks

but travel backward
in time, with
those closest them
while he creeps,
silent, around the room

she concentrates hard,
on her work
glaring at the page.
he sits a desk forward
feet on floor
neighboring desk full
today, but only physically

blue hat rests
on sketchbook,
its border
barely covering
closed eyes

blond head
implants itself
jokingly, into
smooth shining
white wall
with enough force
to collapse
accidental target

a hand raises
attracting gazes,
awestruck,
at her interest
in forgotten
material
of future tests


5
only a few eyes wander
from blue lined notebooks
though the left flank
still chatters, embodying
either a secretive chipmunk
or the breeze which starts the storm

storm clouds appear slowly
in sketchbook, blue hat bobbing
rhythmically in response to active pen

perched above the flock
reminiscent, split headed
papa bird scans the masks
of his shockingly silent chicks

random lecture breaks the silence.
Her eyes aren’t the only ones
Fixed into a steel laden glare
But the chipmunk wind ceases


6
his questioning glance lands
on uninhabited space,
exhibiting a yawn
which traverses through,
and twists, the faces of
those otherwise engaged

lecture ends with a question,
the scent of nuts blows through
mentally empty classroom
turning desks to predetermined
positions and swiftly inhabiting
three-quarters of the physical class

his steel glare has replaced hers
the latter’s eyes now soft as an infants

within five minutes, his voice
undergoes  a brutal, complete cycle
pleading, congratulating, yelling
and as always, lecturing


7
pre-test:

preparations for misery-
mundane chipmunk chattering,
jokes and laughs from random
oddities appearing everywhere

blue hat rests in intervals.
Blue coat rearranges
essay for another class

The girl in the sunny plaid
Rolls an orange along her hand

He points at nothing and asks
Nobody something without answer

The left flank, as always
Is turned away, conversing

A sigh rings outward loudly
Everyone glares, nervously,
Everywhere, reward of concentration


After my test:

First paper in, he scans lightly
Sets it down with a scowl
and yawns, twice, breaking the
silent shroud of heavy fog
which is hanging overhead

wandering free eyes witness
down-turned heads concentrating
as much on tests  as on moving
their hands wildly, excitedly
trying to communicate non-vocally

others have yet to detach themselves
from their seats and stride upward,
hopefully more triumphantly
than their sole predecessor

one shuffles now, slowly toward him
his hand shaking as he releases
that  paper, he turns away as it flutters
onto the desk- he replants himself in his

twelve others walk forward
smiling, shrinking, sometimes speaking
and always he glares, triumphant
knowing his success at our failure


later:

his near-sleeping form            
finds distraction, in waking
dreams, jumping back suddenly
breaking from his plank-like state
without speaking. excitement
for approaching weekend is
communicated in the left flank

two girls break the silence
running in from outside            
he glares at them, but laughs

everyone breaks into groups
after the conversation about
mysteriously nutty discarded sock

he runs to the forefront
forehead folded, finger on mouth
no-one notices, but still he glares

8
he smiles and glares at the floor
his legs swinging back and forth            
tan slacks rustling softly

exaggerated scores bubble in ears            
as they search for their destroyer

in front of forgotten faces falls
the page of a forgotten tome

several yawn, hoping, understandably
that their stretched lips
will pull themselves far enough
to barricade ears from his droning

he kills himself, twice, bumbling
into half-thought chastisements
of the  flittingly flirtatious students
intermingling hoping behind him
causing waves of whispers, laughter
and slightly strengthened chatter

he re-aligns his thoughts quickly
and rambles on again, always

9
he speaks to her softly
from across a sea of desks
she looks up, panicking calmly
distracted from distraction

in silence, blank eyes turn
surprised at the non-withering
state of her barely living corpse

he asks a question, looking up
a single answer is given
unemotional and short, buy ending
heavy hanging awkward silence

how talented the teacher
who gives his lecture while
still addressing unrelated
student self lectures

the still silence given
in his questioning lull
hangs so loudly the whispers
traversing the classroom appear
silent as finger wiggle
and pencils trace zeros

his extrication, caused by
distractingly thunderous voice
is met with a comment
causing a wave of laughter
starting at his mouth
and extending to inhabit everything

10
half the time gives
twice the attention
as they concentrate
on keeping him on
the undying topic
of the work we
have already done

they admit defeat
as dusty tome opens
spreading a nutty cloud
causing heads to turn
and words to leap.

from opens lips,
mischievous gremlins
sprout, dancing on
tables and chuckling
away from the sigh
of his down-turned, split
shining, globular mind

he scratches pink ear
with bone pale finger
reading unrelated words

in the center of the room
both mentally and physically
he sits, momentarily quiet
as dark eyes glare past
rumpled pink nose,
concentrating

blue hat rests on open palms
above dust covered open page
he slips into sleeping state
but picks himself up
and stares though thin borderline
toward shiny rambling forehead

a shutter cord flies forward
the hand at the end pulling hard
but with no affect to the shutters
neither lowering the physical
or raising the mental

the color of non-color pencils
interrupts the class momentarily
as she strides forward to compare
and then criticizes his care

he just sits, smiles and stares

11
eleven desks lie empty
of one form more than usual
amplifying the arm movements
of the ever ticking seconds

his obscured mouth flings seeds
which sprout into words
before even meeting the worn
blood-colored carpet below

in the main room, sixteen
sit silent, sketching, sleeping
or siphoning the last minute

12
those left awake, and alive
have come to understand
the numbers on the screen
this being their specialty
in a nutty shell, of course
splitting, as we are, large
crowds of numbers, and us
being teenagers, isn’t that
how we think, in numbers
and ratings of everything
and, sitting in the central
crowd are the talented
crowd-splitters
flattery-spitters

13
the silence of half absence
is pierced, as always by vocal
anomaly, centered around
rows of shining wood
bookrests, but only one
set of hollow, dark-rimmed
vacant eyeballs watches
well-welcomed interruption

he lets us work, standing.
Someone somewhere opens
A large container of nuts
Entire class starts stuffing
Handfuls into puffy cheeks
Absorbing sensations into
Eternally ravenous minds

The apocalyptic mix of noises
Is split again by central
Nutcracker, and those in corners
Glare, smiling, rubbing shadowed
Acne scarred faces
with raw-bitten nails

14
balding papa bird speaks loudly
transforming his voice, becoming
vocally legendary cartoon duck

the wave of resulting laughter
ends in un-given nut-break
spreading, without speech
the understanding that his
comedic digression will not
meet a quick extinction

we greet the weekend
by rising early
our excuse: competition
to devour the worm

15
three heads are downturned
peering into textbooks
as the tsunami breaks

the days end starts
and beady eyes peer
in the direction of his
moving head, colored
gothic gargoyle in the
dim cloudlight streaming
through dust coated
slit windows

the room transforms
becoming triumphantly,
grumpily, repeatedly
conversational

artificial silence
spreads like a wave
from right back corner
to left front corner
leaving behind
the half of the room
hidden behind the wall
of troublemakers
who will eventually
cause the wall to topple
with the sheer force
of assorted nuts

16
blue hat is scrunched
under the of a fist
pounding on his head,
result of the decibels
consumed, and produced
by the embodiment
of the thoughts around him
which fall from stuffed
cheeks. Bounce off tables
and spread a sickening aroma
as their shells split
exposing, revealing
nothing

17
red face glances upward
as harsh words split
the widening sea of snickers
his words stop, first time today
as whispers spread wildly
of his speed in delivering answers
seconds later, room is silent
as statement ends and lecturer
turns back to him, offering
as always, another wave
of deep felt, anger hardened
quietly whispered, criticisms

thunderous-rush-voice leads
out of habit and necessity
the minutes following
his behavioral digression
each word stabbing split-headed
pointy-nosed papa bird, their
form a walnut-wood spear
crafted from drifted thoughts
of those sitting nearest him

18
on his back lies a pile of nuts
professor’s earthquake
shoulder shaking causes
eyes to open, back to rise
and with a tremendous roar
both physical and meta-physical,
it topples to worn carpet
and the laugh-track plays on

19
silence- pierced into being
by shrill, violent, mountainous
rise, and fall, of thunderous decibels-
hangs, heavier, louder than
the quick gone loudness replaced
or, in all actuality, displaced
mere seconds before being scrawled
into eternal memory
of those whose noses
sniff, daily, nutty clusters
of letters, which exclude
always, the ever-present x
the destructive π
and that y, which of course
flies as high as forgetful
nut-bearers




©Brandon Webb
2012

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.

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

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.

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 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.

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 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.

it's always at night
that the epiphany comes,
that the constant downpour of thoughts
forms a constant shape.
how can i tell you that lately,
that shape has been your name?

my late night dream shaping sessions
have to stop-
epiphanies leave a footprint,
and i don't want this one to be filled by tears,
like all the rest.

I'll put the rain to better use
than thinking there's a spot next to you
for me

time to roll over,
fall asleep without dreaming

i think like this too often
for me to believe i've succeeded tonight

i'll wake up tomorrow still thinking of you
and thank myself for you not being her,
but i'll still be stuck-
dreams are hard to break,
false realities are worse
(wish i thought this could work)



©Brandon Webb
2012

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 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.

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

First note of the year:
a small tan thing that falls to my desk from his hand.
I don't recognize the name
but I know immediately who and where she is.
He lets me out a minute early
as we're all congregated around the door
waiting, patiently for the bell.
I walk into the room
to find her jump roping
in a third floor classroom
at ten in the morning.
Her's is a face I have never seen
and her name is also unknown to me
as i the reason i'm here;
who told her about me.
but we talk for a few minutes
her words slurred almost unnoticeably by a slight southern accent
that makes me feel better about just sitting here and talking.
after ten minutes
a face familiar to both of us melts in through the doorframe
and we all talk
until a face all three of us know
also slinks in
and sits on the sofa
and our conversation continues
about everything,
and nothing,
and ourselves,
and everyone else.
the minutes creep by
and feel bad for not being in class
but this feeling, here
with a couple of good friends
and the short jump-roping lady with the slight southern accent
is peaceful,
and for the rest of the day
i'm calm and my thoughts are collected.
and a few of them
just a few
are questioning my future
thinking how great it would be
to be in her position;
in a room with people she knows
laughing, smiling, talking
and letting them leave
with smiles and calm thoughts.
more than traveling and meeting people,
learning their stories as I go;
this is where I belong
or is it?
I can't answer that
even with clear thoughts.

Someday I'll be able to-

Someday




©Brandon Webb
2012

i'm weak
weaker than i used to be
or at least that's what they tell me-
thin and white,
a pale white, which will fade into pink.
but never red,
not anymore.
but i'm still happier now
sitting in this dark room, alone
the light from the small lamp
crammed on top of two boxes of apples
and below my fathers old, untouched, dress coats
in the right corner of my closet,
creeps past
the silver handled blade on my floor
past my pale, hairy, white-lined leg
past my empty, unmade bed
and dies, quietly, on the wall
behind the TV, which, in humming
disintegrates every word,
every word, which i want to,
need to
communicate to her
in some way
even if it it means tapping them out
on that screen slid under the TV.
it's red light is flashing, facing me- it's charging.
But why?
To reveal more **** disappointment?
To reveal the last thing she sent me?
"stop sending me stuff".
and right above all the,"i love you"s.
Right above all the **** lies,
because, if she loved me,
she'd be here,
the closet door would be closed,
the lamp, off
the knife back in my desk drawer
and my leg would be unhurt,
it isn't



©Brandon Webb
2012