Root beer has a particular taste, I only
liked it with ice cream. You were the first
person I’d met over the age of eleven
that loved it. We’d always share drinks,
and you didn’t care what I liked.
I had a date recently who laughed
when I ordered such a childish soda.

At twenty years old, I needed total darkness
and silence to fall asleep. But you.
You needed the television on, or maybe
you had no preference, and just liked
to bicker. I’ve been sleeping with it on
for over a year now. My lullabies
rerun the theme songs of nineties sitcoms.

My back hasn’t cracked since February
of last year. It’s not your fault.
I’m not sure if I don’t ask someone
else to do it because I’m shy, or
because I want that pleasure to
exclusively come from you. I’ll admit
I miss you whenever my back aches.

You like
to play this game.
A vortex of *******,
change the face of who you’re kissing,
pretend.

I used to make my choices carefully,
keeping a menu of where I’d been.
Now they all taste the same to me.

My first boyfriend called me a tease.
It was over a year before I let him in.
I used to make my choices carefully.

Always tasted citrus gum on his teeth.
Orange-lime breath through a goofy grin.
Now they all taste the same to me.

Another guy smelled of tobacco and ****,
scratching his habits into my skin.
I used to make my choices carefully.

His kisses were like rice crispy treats,
sugary desserts while staying thin.
Now they all taste the same to me.

I go back in time whenever I’m lonely.
We’re eternally teenagers, acting on whims.
I used to make my choices carefully.
Now they all taste the same to me.

Sixteen year old girls hold
the answers to life.

They have ***
(with boys who have girlfriends,
across the front seat of an El Camino,
parked two houses down from her own,
where her parents await her return
no later than ten, unaware
that while they watch Jeopardy, their daughter's
hair rubs and frizzes against upholstery
that is older than her, and her head
occasionally bangs against the dark sidewalk
facing window, with a deep,
but gentle, thud)
and call it love.

I dated a man once who seemed to sit on the outside of his
relationships and watch the plot unfold, adding a few dramatic

flourishes and keepsakes for effect. I found his tales of parting
gifts to former lovers odd, I had the impression he needed Act

II to be over so that he could write the ending and begin a
new play. One girl got his guitar, another, a coveted book of

poetry signed by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Their stories lived-on
inside a shoe box on the top shelf of his closet, and some

entries in a leather bound journal held shut by a leather strap.
He had written some nice things inside of it about me, but

hearing how great I am as we part ways has gotten repetitive
in my own story line. The question begs, do I subconsciously

wish for my own shoe box and leather bound journal of good
byes and thank you for stopping by, the ******* were lovely?

No, to be fair to me I don’t. I know one thing though, I would
want an original copy of Leaves of Grass, that is, if I wanted a

parting gift. I told him to let goodbye be enough when it ended
and that I needed to be more than one of his shoe box girls. He

was startled and a little embarrassed. I am still attempting to
decipher how my saying it needed to end made me feel like I

had just gotten dumped. Other times, I have unwittingly used
my own power of persuasion to shake a love struck boy into

the possible reality that I am not as magical as he thinks I am.
But I really wish he would refute me, in spite of my convincing

argument. I still hope for the “you are the most fascinating
woman alive and I cannot live without you” prize. I poked

holes for air in the lid of the shoe box to keep that hope alive.

A wet, salty tear rolls down
Emotions climb out of their grave
Explosion of light inside
Spread and seep from my lips
Powerless to contain them
Gasping as they emerge
Given utterance, validation and freedom
"I am still in love with you."
Another wet, salty tear

Friday night used to be for writing.
Red wine, music and poetry
Is how I survived this era of
aloneness.
An era of destitution
that rediscovered the writer
inside
with a critical edition of
Leaves of Grass
and a leather bound journal
with pages too pretty to write
upon.
Some blogs lauded by perfect strangers
who found my erotica and loneliness
intriguing.
Kierkegaard says poets are unhappy
but
Mr. Whitman seems pretty **** happy
pushing his man-flesh into his lovers.
Sometimes I would use what little
grocery money I had on that
$10 bottle of wine.
It calmed me and felt like the mark
of a true artist
to be a Friday night alcoholic.

A little girl barely fitting behind
the metal casing of the basement furnace
The wall feels cold through her t-shirt
and scratches the skin on her back
No one knows about her hiding place
Except the spiders that occasionally crawl
across her bare legs and feet
It’s dark. She tries not notice that it’s scary
Because it is quiet and it’s safe
There is nothing to stop her from existing
in the world she creates in her mind
That world has sunshine and loving words
Where she is pretty, like the girls in the catalogues
with dresses and ruffled underwear
Jesus carries her on his shoulders and tells her that she is special
So for an hour or two she is not un-bathed and unwanted
She will sit here dreaming until she falls asleep
Because no one will notice that she is gone

I found a poem that reminded me of you
I was going to leave it on your door
Because you said you did not want visitors yesterday
Well, I was dying yesterday! Holy Christ!
I hold my stomach as I laugh
He listens intently as I read it out loud
A flush in his cheeks betray his emotion
Thank you, I take that as a compliment
Who is this Charles Bukowski?
A knock on the door
Why are you here? I was expecting the governor!
It is the hospice worker
Oh Perry, I love you and bend down to hug him
His shoulders feel sharply bony now
I love you too darling in playful tones
I might just go to that Happy Hour today
I think that would be splendid
I say to a dying man