I caught her singing "Clair de Lune"
when she thought my gaze had wandered to
the girl from the bar, in the red dress and blue shoes
who snag happier, more uplifting tunes;
not that sad, quiet beauty by the light of the moon.

I caught her sighing, pining for release
from the pain of what she was feeling then
Her heart filled her lungs, and she sang out again
that lonely, impossible masterpiece;
that showcase of her heart's discontent.

I wept; should have come from my hidden den
but instead I watched, silent tears blurring my sight.
Though I should by rights have swept her into my arms,
I watched as she sang "Clair De Lune" long into that lonely night,
unsure if my presence would bring to her face a smile... or alarm.

The first, if I could but for a moment see, I'd trade away my immortal soul.
The second, rather than let it be, I would happily die,
                                                                                     silent and alone.

I remember us all sneaking across fences to grab the cooler full of beers she said were behind her dad's house. The back lights came on and we became swift as wind, running down alongside the river bank laughing and choking drunk all of us were. But we got our beers.

I remember leaving the house party, stumbling from one side of town to the other, smashing every pumpkin I saw along the way. When you found me, I was dazed. You said you just followed the guts along side the road and smiled.

I remember the bonfire at the moon towers, they drove off the flats in a fit of youth and invincibility. I half heartedly mocked, "they're gonna wreck. " Two hours later we picked them up from the side of a dirt, gravel, road as they walked away from the shattered glass and mangled trees. He still thanks me to this day for the ride home.

I remember walking down the street with you and that ******* my back, the street in front of your house. We all looked up for some reason and saw that ghostly flash of light pass across the front of the light pole. We froze, and then calmly walked back to your front porch, ours brains wracked with what it could have been. We still don't know.

I remember seeing you at her funeral, you were torn down and she was being laid to rest at an age much to young, only 15. You were with your new boyfriend but you still said you wished it was me by your side and for a moment life didn't seem so grey and hazy. I still never apologized for being who I was. I'm sorry.

I remember more about the sleepy little town we all grew in than I care to admit, holding all these moments close to my heart. It was the only place that felt like it accepted me. Even now that everyone is gone and our shades haunt that high school, I still feel a presence when I go back home to visit. Our little Donnie Darko town.

"                        "
      !            :                  ,                .
              ,            ,            ,                .
      ,              ;                              !
                    ,

the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...

we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.

I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...

and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.

the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

Just the thought of them makes your jawbone ache:
those turkey dinners, those holidays with
the air around the woodstove baked to a stupor,
and Aunt Lil's tablecloth stained by her girlhood's gravy.
A doggy wordless wisdom whimpers from
your uncles' collected eyes; their very jokes
creak with genetic sorrow, a strain
of common heritage that hurts the gut.

Sheer boredom and fascination! A spidering
of chromosomes webs even the infants in
and holds us fast around the spread
of rotting food, of too-sweet pie.
The cousins buzz, the nephews crawl;
to love one's self is to love them all.