-
if i wrote a poem for every time
i felt like checking out indefinitely
i'd have six collections published
and the means to build myself
a cabin in a river valley,
tucked away between
two peaks of the andes
that are as lonely
as the singing/screaming
dual facets of the inner mind.
-
and ironically, i'd use the space
to fill the necessity i ran from
anyways, but --
-

she was the first
to act as though
she wanted to be my beretta,
to hold a holster to my thigh
and accept the badge
of partner in crime.

she spoke without shelter.

pool days of marination
in monsters and taurus,
a kiss for pity
as i'd yet to be corrupted,
and she stole some joy
in taking what wasn't hers.

she was bigger than me.

she showed me
how shattered touch screens
can look like dried petals,
but cut like cold *******,
and when you're in a field of dandelions
how they come in handy.

she wrote the book on flagellation.

she promised it was all for me;
calloused fingertips from
loving me with lighter fluid,
scratches for feral adoration,
and the damocles' above my head
or rather hers, and hers to drop on a whim.

she wrote a chapter on manipulation.

i wasn't ready the first time
she pushed passed denim
and plaid as easily
as she waived my concern,
nor the second --
nor the third.

she had daddy issues.

i still didn't know
how tampons worked,
or vaginas for that matter,
and so to be forcefully
and viscerally introduced to both
behind a tree in Henessey
****** up my brain a little.

she called it "mad week."

ear bud cables
became garrotes
around my neck
in the suspended
movement of a pulse
through my aorta;
and as every day with her,
i felt she crossed a line,
and as every day before,
i never called foul.

when made a designated drinker
for a designated driver.

when stomaching stale pabst
and rationed sweet cider.

when frat boys fulfill
stereotypical homophobia.

when twenty grade A reds
can't last me longer than a dream.

when old man nightclub and triple kills
usurp the crown of moderation.

when you fall asleep
with so much in your blood to spill
like beans,
or milk not worthy of tears,

and i keep a loom in my heart
where i weave a string of everyone
[with myself]
and every fray in warp or weft
is mimicked by the splinters
shuttled to my hand.

mornings are better
when wrapped up
in strawberry kiwi
paper and burned.
-
like gene wilder
and roald dahl
with lickable wallpaper
cut up into skins.
-
a mile took more
effort than i thought,
and i'd rather replace
the tar in my lungs
with love,
but no one
likes to shotgun anymore,
and the man i've written
so much about
has pulled a move
more fitting me
than him,
-

all i've been able to think about lately
is a poem written by fingers on a keyboard
attached to a left hand not yet responsible
for being blistered with cigarette burns
or lifting can or shot or handle to lips
with which to stain -- barley, hops,
potatoes, rice, and alcoholic love.
and i've been thinking about how i felt
after i read a poem written the night
before by a left hand now singed
and swollen, and guilty of lifting
many such apparatuses bearing
many such inks to blot out
mistakes and scribble over
all the misjudged words
that have spilled from
lips stained with barley,
hops, potatoes, and rice.
and i've been thinking about
the content of that poem,
and about how differently
i thought of it two nights ago,
before i got my own matching
business card with a followup
appointment for next week,
and a matching warning
to allow 24 hours notice
before changing the day
or time of an appointment
in order to avoid being charged;
and with it came the opportunity
to write my own poem about it:
Christina M., LMFT,
Wed, 4-17-13 at 4:00 PM,
and it has a sacramento street
address with a phone number
i have no intention of calling.
and i've been thinking about
how i met with her today,
and what we spoke of,
how i told her about drugs,
and how i told her about drinking,
and how my grades have been slipping,
and how i realized that
my poem is his poem,
just eleven months too late.
and that's why i told her about
this party i went to this weekend,
and how i'm passive, and i have trouble
speaking up for myself when i need to,
and how we sang until i left the room,
and how i went outside in the cold
after i came back inside to notice
something i wasn't expecting
to make me sad, but did.
and this person with whom
i have another appointment next week,
and most likely the week after that,
for however many weeks it takes,
told me that it helps to tell a person
how you're feeling without
gluing strings to the information,
or getting upset, or lying,
and so i guess this is an attempt,
albeit one made out of cowardice
and impatience, and some desire
for there to be an easier way
to tell a boy i've loved him
ever since i found this stupid website,
filled with his stupid words,
and his stupid poem about
a stupid girl he used to date,
that clinically broke open
my amygdalae and upon them
tattooed every feeling
of which i was never sure.

the only calliope
i ever really wanted
has already decided
she's through with me
without giving me
a chance to speak.
-
and she's polyhymnia
in the comedy of hell,
raising voice in praise
of anything she respects
and in that she garners
all the power intrinsic.
-
no need for erato
when she's around
to keep my arteries
and thoughts clear
of emotional plaque
and writers' embolisms.
-
she is euterpe on a stage
of all the beautiful words
in all the beautiful languages
that can never be explained,
only known, and loved
and said in blissful ignorance.
-
she's thalia and melpomene,
comedy and tragedy,
laughter in her steps,
and springtime song,
and the ache of departure
evident in her wake.
-
terpischore at play
when the music starts,
involuntary, a reflex;
dancing is like breathing
to she who will break
my heart so many times.
-
she is urania --
she keeps my eyes
on infinity and away
from sights that feel
like shaky index knuckles
on unforgiving pistol triggers.
-
she is clio, keeper
of simple night histories,
because those are what
she lives for,  and those are
what i've always mused upon
living for -- with her.

thunder is your favorite sound
and thunder is what cracked
in our stormcloud lungs
and our pulses
and the brushing of fingers
like lightning rods,
hoping one too many
would be enough to strike us.

petrichor is my favorite smell
and so we're suited to the dark grey
when it looms o'erhead;
every rippling echo an invitation
to be the next rock thrown into the sky --
rain breaks the seal, and immediately
there's no other option than
to be intoxicated with the scent of renewal.

-
for the first time
since i could sort the cutlery
on my own, you've cast me
as the bent or dented spoon,
the chipped ceramic bowl;
let the dog eat out of it,
toss it in the trash --
-
and there are too many little dashes
perforating the circumferences of clocks,
and no one to cut around the edges --
with little dull scissors and colorful handles;
the kind you used to piece me out of your
scrapbook.
-
i'm sorry this is so passive-aggressive
but i just don't know of any other way
to cope with the fact
that you just don't have time in your life
to be there for me anymore,
that there isn't room for another episode,
that i need to keep control --
-
like it's as easy as deciding
to have tea, or at least not coffee,
but regardless of my order
you're not the ******* barista in this analogy,
so kindly get the hell out from behind the register.
-

-
crack another thermometer open
on the broken bathroom sink,
pour yourself into me like mercury
and pan the bed of my stomach
for multitudes of gold flecks
like however many myriads
of sickly pill bottles in your
dresser drawer of socks.
-
see all
the shredded speckled petals
i ripped up before i'd let
the deer get to them;
i'm colorblind,
and i can't tell
the sun's reflection from plastic,
or tulips from the broken
pottery outside my front door.
-
and far least from another beer,
and another fifth of whatever
could be fit under your shirt
-
and never a chair pulled up to speak,
from standing like a soapbox
more suited to cleaning
than to preaching.
-
pour yourself into me like mercury,
because it's so much easier
when my veins weigh me down
to distraction, than being able
to think of hydrangeas again.
-

porque usted nunca entendió
lo que quise decir cuando dije:
siempre estás en mis sueños;
como verano y limonada,
quemaste mi piel y eras
agrio en labios secos;
finalmente yo corto la pulsera
que me diste, y la corazon
de la musica se está desvaneciendo.

es marzo,
y le hice una promesa a mi mismo;
llovió la última vez que lloré por ti
y nevó cuando me olvidó;

ya no estás en mis sueños nunca mas.

because young men are never good to their bodies.

i can see where we stood,
slanted tin sheets on the second story,
commercial street lit up with excitement
brought about only by the prospect
of another friday night.
the moon wasn't out then,
but if you laid back just right,
the metal and the cold and the stars
made it better than the moon,
and that's what i would call it
if anyone ever asked.

(now) i can see where we stand,
like marble giants skipping disci,
or stones by the lakeside,
where august on the shore
can't throw enough
to change the season,
and as much as i'd like to blame the kid,
it's not his fault summer isn't here yet.

and there's some weird comfort
in being around you;
maybe it's the crazy talking,
or whatever was in that bottle,
or maybe it's because you smoke
the same cigarettes as i do,
or because you ditch money
faster than the interest rates.

*******, it's empathy.

you've been sad like i've been sad,
and that's what it boils down to.

sometimes it seems as though the cars
passing my street won't drive quickly enough,
and that the strands of christmas lights
aren't strong enough to support my weight.
                   
so for now i'll settle for forgetting to look both ways,
and perhaps later, i will invest in some sturdier rope,
all the better to scale my own cliffs of despair,
and face off with the spanish swordsman
reclining on the tip of my tongue,
matching rapier in (left)hand.

if victory finds its way to me, i'll continue to confound
in meeting the brute within, he who pounds boulders,
whose heart is like tourmaline in a granite casing,
and who claws at pristine arms in convulsion.

if i am once again triumphant, i shall travel further,
and face the shards of wit cutting through my irises,
except i am not as the dread pirate, the man in black,
i am vulnerable, i have no resistance, i am broken down
as easily as i am built up, and it is truly a gamble.

if, by some miraculous stroke of good fortune, i continue further,
i shall be disappointed, for at the end of the trials lies tribulation,
no flower princess for me, no blindfolded beauty,
only that **** noose of christmas lights again,
suspended from a macabre and rickety structure
seemingly crafted from the same material as the road to hell,
destination identical.

i've always wanted to apply for CSSSA,
but i'm too scared the rejection letter
will be the future shades of senior year
when i finally hear back from the mailman
who took my essays a year ago,
all bundled up in pre-approved envelopes,
stamped, addressed, received, thrown aside.
-
but that's not for two years,
so i don't know why i'm worried.
-
i've always wanted to do something,
not make something of myself,
even though the verb is the same in
spanish, with a reflexive difference.
-
in regard to this, a wise twenty-something (contradictory)
once told me to let myself feel instead of worrying so much:
"to put it less eloquently, feelings are like ****. FEEL 'EM."
-
apparently i haven't felt in eight months.
-
so maybe in compensation,
i will apply to CSSSA,
though the deadline is the 28th,
and the assigned portfolio demands
an utter lack of procrastination--
not my strong suit, you could say,
as a month of homework is still
sleeping in my bed.
-
****, it's all due tuesday.
-
also, while walking home
i saw a norse god namesake
on a balcony-asgard, wreathed
in the byproduct of his last smoke,
and somehow, despite my inability
to feel, that just made me so sad.
-

-
they say if a tree falls in the woods
and no one's around to hear it,
it creates a silence
in vibration,
without even
deaf ears upon which to crash.
-
and they say if a tree dies in the woods,
the only formalities it receives
are a coffin of moss and lichen,
a bouquet of fungi,
and a burial in overgrowth.
-
and i say, if a man dies in the woods
at the trunk of a silently falling tree,
then i am that man,
and the funeral would be attended by none,
and i would garner little more sympathy
than the corpse of the last man before me.
-
and finally, i say too that
this poem is inaptly named,
for i have no victim
to suffer
from
my
loss.
-

gentle, like the
                         dips, and
                                         grooves,
and soft protrusions of a skeleton,
but more alive, like muscle tissue
over my skull; woolen proteins
fortifying my ears against chill,
keeping my hair stretched taut
against my scalp and finishing
with a flourish of purled texture
cascading abruptly to my neck.

i liked it because it matched
       the lining of my jacket,
       it tied my reds together,

i liked it because it made me
      stick out like a sore thumb
      looking to catch a ride to
      San Francisco or detention,

i liked it because it caught me up
      in the eight legs of disapproval,
      (even though they respected me
      in the utmost, they still tripped
      me something fierce)

i liked it because it taught me selflessly
      never to wear it again.

whenever there's a need,
a gap to fill, imbalance,
you find a way to help,
to pull up in your old
white toyota that we
always know is yours
by the flashy lei hung
around the rear-view --
to say "*******" to
whatever scales we
seem to be required
to conform to, and
fix everything with
your jagged defiance
(or ruin it, but that's
how it is when you're
dealing with scales).

i can't express the joy
(and relief) that hit
me harder than you
hit the brakes, when
you pulled up today;
you were all dolled up,
just enough makeup
to bring out your blues
with the single gold streak
in the left you share with
another, and to accentuate
the soft angles of humble
cheekbones, followed by
black cashmere and jeans
that kept their blue only
by the notes in navy ink
scribbled onto them like
a hundred school children
had used them as paper bits
but forgotten to pass them on.

it was a clear sky cutting
through the trees kind of day,
and we consumed it with all
the relish we could muster
in light of recent events, which
i've always thought is a funny
phrase considering the events
transpiring recently were the
very essence of dark times;
but we chose to navigate
away from such topics, even
though they were all plaguing
our minds -- like
the fact that reality has driven
mercilessly into you like an
industrial-grade nail gun;
your ash, your little light
was stolen away from you,
and even though it's probably
for the best, no one ever said
you had to be ready for that.
or like the nifty new pills
you've been taking to ****
your emotions like bacteria
and let their unicellular corpses
drip away in the shower drain;
better them than crimson from
the canyons carved into you
by the raging rivers of this life.

and even still, you retain such
goodness in you, such wisdom,
but the sandpaper hardships
have worn down your caution
and sometimes it seems like
you're ready to say "**** it"
once again and throw
the whole plank into the fire
to keep the rest of us warm.

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.

i am a daredevil for walking
down the yellow line all the
way home, until i remember
my road doesn't have one.

i am a maverick because i
notice little things like the
resemblance of a fire pistol
trigger to gold and nickel.

i am a boy because i have
not reached manhood.
i am a god because i do
not believe.

tonight you told me
to remember this, in
your own way -- levity
leading the forefront;
"that(this) one night
when you stayed up
late, sewing and [stap]
[-ling] and otherwise
binding these little sheaves
of poetry for gifts to be
distributed the next day."

we relax and shrug off
the somewhat gruesome
dealings of the early evening,
speaking of perception and
human interfacing[projection].
a discussion of some deeper
thoughts followed, however
the part of me that still
wears footsie pajamas wouldn't
stop pulling on my arm.
as the clock hit 11:40, i went
to bed, turning briefly at the
stairs to say:
"merry christmas."

we drove through snowbanks today;
one for the first time behind the wheel
-- one with his eyes fixed on the road
and me, just another passenger along
for the ride.
                   it was still lacing over the
world with white, like nature pulling
up her comforter and settling herself in
for the season -- heavy down muting even
the quietest quiets; we followed suit, put
on the smiths and sent our tumultuous
evening back to bed to curl up with a
blanket or two, swap stories with tucked-
in and tuckered out madam nature until
we realize we're still alive -- and at this
juncture (both figurative and literal)
during the supposed shift in energy,
spiritual awakening, consciousness, etc,
we embraced the contradictory side
of our cynical teenage bodies and
sent our thoughts back to sleep with
the current of his lilting voice and the
subsequent waterfall of grieving
piano notes, tinkling and sending
splinters of icy shivers down each
of our spines as we drove on through
the gently imposed quiet of a cold
down comforter.

heretofore i had
let slip from my
conscious mind
your grace, and
how jolting the
reminder was,
like north and
south attracting
again, slamming
into each other
in a fit of [profane]
polarity.
                 until now,
  the little quirks and
quips we shared were
not evident, or i didn't
let them be, anyways.
still, the intensity with
which you sing to me
and i to you again can't
be stolen by an audience,
or outmatched by instrumentation,
because the wisdom of
the greatest libraries
pales in comparison to the
  volumes still in the telling
by those pools conveniently
placed in your skull for the
world to admire.

it bothers me that
arpeggiated piano
still incites in me
[saudade(for you)] on
these empty evenings;
and it bothers me that
this silly irish girl
feels the same way
i do, and that your
sister shares a name
rooted in gaelic, just
like her; and now i
might be grasping
at straws, but never
have i told a bigger
truth than when i
say i find the most
arbitrary ways to
remind myself of
you, or accurately,
the lacking thereof.

and it bothers me that
the only seeming cure
is to purge (myself) of
you with [ballads sung
by sobbing ivory keys],
like [baking soda] to a
(bee sting), drawing
out the venom drops
of your last acidic kisses,
and neutralizing them
in the stark alkalinity
of these spare words,
little more than dimes
dropped into the tin
cup or upturned hat
of the beggar i have
become.

i never would have dared
to dream that here upon
this rival's stoop i'd perch,
discussing the theoretical
forces that affect and create
and effectively create the
world surrounding us, and
never would i have guessed
it'd be you with whom i'd speak.
the red dragon symbolizes
man, you said, angular,
linear, power, strength;
the yellow dragon bears
the fruit of the feminine,
with spiritual compassion
for all and sanctuary.
and in the collisions between
the gentle and the forceful
by accident, or intention,
we find genesis.
you carried on to talk
about a belt of silent
asteroids from whence
we supposedly came,
our progenitors massive,
with trilobite heels, but
that theory was a little
too astral for me to grasp,
and that bothered you,
i could tell by the sighs
and frustration that
spilled from the leaky
faucet of your lips.
so i changed the subject
with a splash of tea,
and washed the remains
of last night away in the
soft waters of whimsical
conversation.

i've always admired water,
its tendency to take the
path of least resistance,
gently eroding without
being openly abrasive.
and i've always admired
you, though our definition
of always seems to differ
and the [drip-drop] of
(water-clocks) has long
since gone out of style.

have you ever felt electric?
charged; ionic, or maybe
something not so particular;
that's the feeling of another
connection being made,
threads of elastic static
woven together on some
great unknown loom
somewhere -- or maybe
just by our own weary
fingers.
              i digress, in that;
this isn't really about any
water, or electricity, or
some cosmic idea of how
we become connected, bound,
souls sewn with steel stitches.
i guess it's really just about
this one thought stuck
bouncing around like
a plectrum in a sound
[hole].
           /i could carry your
heart, like other writers/
and you're the only one
who would appreciate it./

it's one of those nights again,
when the messy equilibrium
of feeling rears its head and
demands compensation for
the goodness i had so recently.

i guess i could discard
the convenient attachment
and simply blame my limbic
system for subjecting me to it,
but that's dis(honest) to my nature.

it's the worst kind: contemplative;
not grief, or [lone]liness, or any
other illness of the amygdala,        
(the heart pumps blood, and
blood is not a medium of feeling).

because i always notice
the little changes in
my twos and capital As,
the slant replacing a
deceptive curve in the
final letter of my name,
the necessary angles
and perpendicular
attitude of my things,
seeking control in
unconventional
places, because i
can't seem to get
a firm handle on
anything else.
incomplete people
with little habits
of a partner
to smooth out
their edges and
fill in their flaws
are luckier than
those who have
to do it themselves.

the way my mind
interprets you makes
me want to, just for
the way you tell your
stories, or crack jokes.

you keep creeping into
the synapses firing like
an execution squadron
all around my brain, and
i can't shake these musings.

(a) maybe i want to prove
something to myself,
(if you find out what, let
me know) or (b) myself
to something, or not.

or maybe (c)
i'm just sad and alone,
and maybe i wish you'(d)
read this, and mayb(e) i
know you will.

trick question, option (f),
maybe i just want to know
what it would be like to
wake you from existence
with the slap to the face
or bucket of glacial water
my lips have always
been.

how i forget to cherish
these little moments
of our togetherness;
making an early meal
of sauteed vegetables
and eggs, "froached"
like i used to call them
when i was your little
chef and would bring
you breakfast on
special occasions,
and sometimes on
sundays, just because
it was sunday and dad
didn't have to leave
for work long before
the crack of dawn
even set its alarm.

we'd all sit in bed
together, squished
into sharing a cozy
comfort, sandwiched
between you two
and my old buddy
gladly the bear who
still sits on your bed
upstairs in his pink-
and-green striped
shirt.

but then i guess
somewhere along
the way i grew up;
the move happened--
i didn't visit gladly
anymore, or you
for that matter.

today you asked
me to get the big
jar -- the carnation
                      (top)
jar, from the
shelf of the kitchen
   cabinet while i
    explained my
oddly convoluted
thought process,
and we talked
about how my
granddad danced
you down the aisle
to django on a whim
of a kooky family friend,
and how i finally
realized how little
i actually know of you--
but that's normal.

i might be growing
up now, and i
might not visit
that little bear
anymore, but
what i never
really told you,
or anyone,
is that i have
my own now,
a blue one who
used to be called
blueberry, renamed
as joseph stalin,
because i'm a
big boy now,
and my sense
of humor dried
out long ago.

i may not be
your little chef
anymore, but
i can still make
you breakfast,
and bring it
to your bed on
sundays, and
sit with gladly,
and quietly chat
until late morning
like we used to
(never) do.

i always wanted to
try listening to the
debut album of
a british goddess
while ironically
killing my own
pair at sunrise --
but as plans often go
south for mice and
men equally, so do
my own;
               languid
wakefulness ran
down my gullet
like seconds on
a smooth cocktail
seasons too late,
and moreover,
my addled brain
forgot the catalyst
the night before
last when i was
trudging along
in the dark and
some saviors in
a cheap white
chariot pulled
into the parking
space beside me,
telling me to
get in --
like they knew
or i knew, or we
all had some odd
mutual feeling of
positive vibrations;
like reminiscing
about early in
last august when
a mysterious scarf-
clad traveler with
sacred arabic
etched into his
hands slipped
me an equally
sacred slip of
paper with
nothing more
to give it purpose,
reason, definition,
or validation, than
that single glorious
and grammatically
incorrect pairing
of expressive
awareness.

i don't plan to meet
the pilgrim again,
regardless of our
unfinished affairs,
but sitting on that
little square of cloth
on top of manicured
lawn in cosmic harmony
with strangers, new friends,
serenaded by sigur ros
and kept company by
grouplove, i've never felt
more enlightened,
more awestruck,
more tuned into
those frequencies
above human
perception,
broadcasting
the only message
we deny ourselves
indefinitely --
*happiness.

i'm sure you've
already noticed
the lonely little
mole right above
your lip on the
left, or right
for you, i guess;
i just wanted to say
that i like it.

of all the people
in all the towns,
in all the countries
in the world, and
you are the one
to steal away
my focus --
this time i wish
sam wouldn't
play the ****
song.

another olive-skinned,
i should have known --
they always inspire
me to paint myself,
cover the pale canvas
of identity with colors
of character and depth;
but always someone
else's character, or
depth.

we danced
before, but stopped
when ridiculed and
classically reprimanded
by an old drunk --
(we used to forget
at his house, now
all i can do is reflect)

smoke signals
aren't your
strength,
regardless
of (or not)
how many
death sticks
and musky,
evanescent
incense scents
you insist on
letting burn.

we kissed before,
more for silly displays
or efficiency than
anything else; but
why am i so ******,
or toasted, or fried,
to think that maybe
it would happen a
second time?

my mother always
used to stress
the importance
of opening my
mirrored closet
doors at night,
so they wouldn't
reflect my night-
mares back at
                 me;
"it's too much
sadness for
sleeping."

but i never listened,
feng shui being
another silly
pastime or
science fit for
housewives --
how wrong i
was with the
stars, perhaps
i am again
mistaken.

maybe if i had
just kept those
**** doors
open annually,
these putrid
thoughts of
mine would
escape into
the ethers and
fade into non-
existence instead
of polluting my
mind and dying
themselves.

listen to your
mothers.
nothing good
can come of
doing otherwise.