i don't think i'll play
with pleasant words
tonight -- i'd rather
upset you with my
honesty than delight
you with laughably
phony repartee.

excuse the graphic aspect
but i'm not in the business
of acknowledging faux pas.

a reflection on state of mind;
i'd say solid, though somewhat
soft and liquid as well, like
a plate of spaghetti for brains,
i can't figure out which strand
of grey matter is meant for me
and which is supposed to be
slurped up by lady and *****
nor whether it is my pituitary
or my hypothalamus which is
destined to be taken home
in a doggy bag for seconds.

i really am lost.

today i will look for
chocolate and flowers
and find a pound of
belgian dark in my
pantry, and wilted
tulips on the counter.
i will hand write a
poem because it's
just so much better
on paper, and i will
serenade my darling
with bright eyes
on a scholastic field
after the last bell rings,
for at last i can stop
musing on possibilities
and begin to dwell
on solidity.

today i will bring you
a rose, for the petals
and lines and worn
down world-weary
ravines contained
in you; i will bring
you sweet darkness
in a plastic wrapping
for all the sugar laced
in with your hair and
irises, and despite your
fire and your heritage,
i will leave out the heat
of sacred mayan ritual
peppers because together
we'll be warm enough.

     finally, i will lean
  down close to you and
    whisper what i have
     not whispered for a
  million seconds or more,
    because i just haven't
     had the opportunity:
  *Ya llegué, mi querida.

i did a funny thing today:
i went right up to my shower
head, you know, one of those
reflective kinds where you can
see your face warping into the
funniest shapes (i didn't laugh),
i went right up to it and watched
as my mouth filled up with warm
water over and over again; and
spilled out over and over again too,
like pools and waterfalls or blood
and drowning (morbidity isn't
really my style, but i went with it),
for an hour, at least.
afterwards, i brushed my teeth
and noticed the hoodlum shadows
underneath my bright blues that
used to be so beloved by my
scatterbrained spanish teacher
and the sweet lady who helped
to surgically extract four pieces
of usurping bone from the corners
of my mouth.

i think one existential crisis is quite
enough for one day, thank you.

******* i forgot to shave.

i didn't really know until
i took that polaroid of you;
you had your hand over
a candle flame and the
shadows dancing between
your fingers illuminated
the spare patches of snow
remaining on the playground.
there was no mistaking
the draining of my swimming
pool of ego as i witnessed
you staring out from each
ice crystal reflection in awe:
your smile tumbled down
the slide and spilled into laughter
while
your voice lilted up the rock wall
and sang in triumph at the top --
and this is when i knew i would
write another poem about you.

i forgot to mention  i've been
drinking my coffee black --
and sometimes, for the hell of it,
i write love and hate in sharpie
on my knuckles because i can't
get it tattooed. every now and then
i even try to carve your name into
the knots and whorls of my spine,
just so i can make believe
i am the man in that one song
you always seem to be singing.

-
an old friend
came back to town
only to hit a patch of sand
and be forced to meet the curb
again, whereupon i learned
the value of almost being shot
in the back for the first time
in my life, and by the
end, i hope i'll know
how to take a bullet
to the chest
-

full circle, nearly, although
i'm not sure around what
it is i seem to be revolving,
for i am not moon, nor star,
nor planet nor body of astral
importance; i am a boy, and
even then, the definition could
be more secure than it is, for
i am not a ship, i have no anchor,
nor sails, my starboard side is
used for writing and my port
is lost in the stormy blue of
the stripes on your dress shirt,
those matching the woven bracelet
i still haven't had the heart nor
gall to remove from my wrist,
like a watch, hands however
not spanning minutes or hours
ticking off each grain of sand
to fall,
[like taking inventory of eternity]
           but pointing incessantly
back to you again, though you
are not the true north i seek, and
a wristwatch has no real business
dealing with dimensions beyond
its design and understanding.
a compass is perhaps better
suited to my purpose, though
the bearing would be thrown
by the lumps of iron remaining
beneath my skin, like braille,
and i the blind man groping
for a means -- any means --
to decipher the message left
hidden in my very fibers
by the electromagnetism
of your goodbyes.

if ever i needed you it is now --
and still the portal you promised
is closed, and no music sounds
for me as it did for you, for it
is you who has quieted it.

there are moments with
you, and moreover, tiny
moments within moments,
and so forth, when it feels
impossible to be any closer
to you than the cigarette
between index and rebuttal.
[it should be saying a lot(but it's not)]
like on those southern nights
when honey stained our lips
and lives and judgment;
they showed up in the back
of a police car, armed with
a deadly arsenal of threats
as empty as the bottle of
whiskey in the corner.
they left, and we delivered,
before the state could sweep ash
away into the dustpan of a foster
home and furthermore into the
wastebasket or dumpster of the
so-called effectively efficient system.
we caught some air mixed in with
the paper souls betwixt index and
profane, and discussed past lusts
and loves and losses and the insanity
of the preceeding few days while the
accompanying ebb of breath and flow
of fire beat gently on our consciences.

the new year; i never thought i'd
make it here, *and neither did you.