I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But I admit, there’s something about the way the bird in my chest starts to sing your name and I pray you can’t hear it with every step I take away from you.

Instead of meeting yours, my eyes wander away together, because they have better things to do than have pointless conversations— I shush them and push them slowly towards you, because those “pointless conversations” are the only ones we have

There’s nothing really remotely handsome about you. In fact, I can see your mother whenever I look at you: the long bridge of your nose, the mischievous twinkle in your eyes, you were a total momma’s boy, but I remember hearing of adventures with your father—skiing, hiking, camping—all rugged outdoors-y activities that I could only dream of doing or even enjoying.

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But there’s something about the way you touched my hand briefly that made my ears burn—perhaps you were a lit candle, and I was an ice sculpture of nothing in particular, so when we touched I cried out in pain, but I wanted to bring you closer

There’s this tone in your voice when we talk, and it speaks nothing of love at all—not for me, or anyone in the room. You talk to me as you would a child, a young girl, your sister’s best friend—and I am all of that. I should learn to be content with that

I remember hearing about a girl in your life, and I don’t think I knew what to feel. I shared in with sisters’ and your mother’s teasing whispers about her, in their hushed laughter. I didn't share what another part of me felt—something strange and twisty, like licorice, and no matter how long you chewed on it, it never got smaller, never disappeared, but it did manage to leave a strange taste in your mouth.

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But nothing stopped me from going up to my sister last night to tell her: “I think I have a problem.” I like to think of myself as “reasonable”, but no matter what I thought, I couldn't reason with myself. I couldn't find the exact moment, the exact word, and the exact reason for why I felt this about you.

We've known each other since your sister and I were small. Even then, I avoided you, and you did the same. There was nothing we could talk about—you were into sports and I was into dolls. I’d hide away with your sister in our imaginary lands, and you were probably at hockey practice, but you were the first boy I've talked to and that scared me.

What am I to you, anyway? I've been told I was a part of the family…do you think so too? Do you follow the unspoken rules like I’m desperately trying to? Do you wonder, at all? I try to block you out of my thoughts, push you away as if you were like vegetables on my plate. There’s nothing about you, logically speaking, that should make me think about you.

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you. So why is this happening?

the dark ice cream man
floats up and down the empty streets
his truck weakly cranking out a warped sounding song
that leaves a trail of dogs objecting
the truck has the word pestilence painted on it
instead of ice cream
his dark form hunched over the steering wheel
his cheshire grin has aspects of his delirium
imprinted on its clean toothy shine
he only comes out at three am
and glides the cool pavement in search
of Delilah's phone number
she promised him that she would be his one true
and he meant to hold her to it
he would do anything to have her all to himself

Delilah walks barefoot along the train track
with one ear nailed acutely to the train whistle approaching
the other ear in her pocket
where she hums a **** version of
the battle hymn of the republic
all good girls love horses and shotgun weddings
she wants her shotgun wedding on the saddle
with the ice cream mans brother
who she thinks is just too nifty to be anything but heavenly
she always pictured him with angel wings
carrying a sword and riding a pale horse named death

there are echoes in the concrete parkland
the neatly trimmed grass glistens wetly in the darkness
a dew touched tree stands on a narrow hill
its leaves thrashed slowly by a whisper of wind
the sound of running feet
laughter
its an illusion
she is an illusion
i make matchstick men
watch them march in precision lines
i am a matchstick man
watch me scribble in precision lines

the ice cream man now sleeping
away the humid hot afternoon
stashed away in the back of his pestilence truck
while Delilah learns how to knit and make candles
that ice cream mans brother sells at flea markets
we all settle for what we think we want
and in the end we all get what we deserve
Delilah marries the brother and they live happily
while ice cream man spends his mid-life crisis as a
politician who leads a double life
making ice cream sandwichs out of his basement
and i am discovered 'neith the truck making
matchstick men out of twigs
from the tree of life

When I look at her—
This girl is only my friend,
But eyes betray me.

they tell her she is pretty on facebook
and truth be told,
she has a face like a southern bell...
but she sits with her hands folded
and her ankles crossed
and tips her head ever so slightly to the side,
chin raised
light glinting off
the brooch on her kohl's sweater...

she is not pretty
to me.

she has perfect cheekbones
big eyes
pouty lips
but she sits
like a doll
stiff,
posed,
placed
perfectly
intently
eyes
bright
i want to
smack her until the rag doll comes out
she is too perfect
too sweet
she is so sweet
that she is
sour
to me

Caustic doorway blues
The fog sets in,
and the moon doesn't glow
when brick structures crumble
Rats in worn carpeting, writhing
The screaming from pensive terminals
and insects live on dead wood
trees felled in hollow rounds
This is the end of something warm
These are days of hydrogen loneliness
and grey skies applaud the tarmac
Pornographers snap pictures
of silhouettes in garages
and the playground hears no love
when gunshots deafen the trees
and the old mattress is sodden
Stale alcohol pungency
near the alleyway, dormant today
But the lights are still glowing
in the house by the canal
where somebody's memories still linger