When I was a student in science class learning the nine planets
I used to imagine that Jupiter was in love with Saturn.
That's how I made sense of the rings.
Planetary engagement.
In every diagram they were always side by side
and so much larger than their counterparts.
Just like lovers with chests stuck out,
swelling from the size of the love they've got stuck in their ribcage.

We all know that couple.
Just rubbing it in.

That was Saturn and Jupiter. In my head.
As I imagined them. So big.
And vibrant.
And gay.

Until I learned about orbit.

Look, I just flew over the city of your residence.
If you looked up you might've seen me.
I'm going to pretend I saw you from here-
I'm still at this end of the telescope and you're still an astrological body.
In all my metaphors you're unearthed, capable of flight,
solar panel lighthouse, walks on moon water, astronaut trainer in training,
gentle giant with kite string hair, earthquake arms, and lunar eyes.
You always leave your light on.
At least for me. Even though we've learned to keep good distance.
Passing each other in the dark night of the solar system.

The wings of this plane are stronger than me.
Luckily.
Cause it was all I could do to keep from parachuting my way back into your sight-lines.

You know, there's a red spot on Jupiter the width of three Earths.
THREE EARTHS!
Scientists at the University of California, Berkeley, want us to believe
that it's actually an ancient monster storm.

I'm still not entirely convinced that it's not a broken heart.

I was daydreaming about the hoverboard that was promised to me
in the sequel to Back To The Future when you big-banged my mindset
with a universe of thought that I was not ready to comprehend.
All you said was, do you think koi fish were typecast?

As if some ancient Japanese fisherman noticed that that fish in particular
was more reserved than the others. I can picture him
paddling quietly across the Caspian Sea as he notices these fish,
looks down through his own reflection and says, you seem artfully shy.

You remind me that historically and geographically speaking,
my story makes no sense. And that the fisherman would not speak English.

I remind you that at the rate we're going, we'll probably die
before we find out how this life ends.
You remind me that we're all fossils in waiting.

This was on the back porch of the house you lived at in Santa Barbara.
There was a mountain to our right and an ocean to our left.
This was in between puffs of your cigarette.

I remind you that sometimes you throw yourself out there like propellers
so I threw myself down like a launch-pad-made-for-landing-
not knowing anything about trajectory- hoping to show you
that there are some people out here who know the importance of landing whole.

You retreat to your smart phone, search Google, load a satellite image,
point to the smallest blue pixel, See that? You say.
That's Earth. Everything we will ever know happened on that dot.

I thought about Newt's completely feasible moon colony and the first moon-born human.
I thought about illegal aliens and inalienable rights.
But I didn't say anything.
We just sat there in perfect silence
like two ukuleles wanting to be acoustic guitars,
perfectly tuned, painted in moon reflection, I said, what are we doing?

And you didn't have to ask.
You knew. When I said we, I meant the species.

“and everywhere there’s statues with their arms open wide
surrounded by fences that you, you can’t get inside”
- Jay Brannan


Let’s call her by her name, Statue of Strip Your Nationality.
When she came into this world she was copper as a battery, shiny.
She was broken into fractions of herself, placed on a boat,
shipped across an ocean and constructed in the name of Libertas,
the Roman goddess of freedom.
Don’t kid yourself, she’s French-American. At best.
She’s embarrassed to admit the number of tourists she’s had
climb inside her for a taste of her liberty.
Bring me your decency!
Bring me your hollow promises!
Bring me your cameras!
Take pictures of the things we believe in.
Bring these pictures back to our ancestors and show them.
Mira! Look! Voir! This is what freedom buys!
Us. And our statues. Frozen.
There’s a metaphor standing between New York City and Staten Island
and she’s ******* cold.
We couldn’t even give her shoes- how symbolic.
She’s been standing barefoot in the middle of the Atlantic wearing less than a jacket on the coldest of winter nights, eyes locked and begging for a place to call home.

When was the last time you stood with that much conviction
for anything?

When you hear my name is there an electrical storm in your brain
caused by my presence still existing there—inside shouting HOLD ON.
Hold on and I’ll tell you an inspirational story about anchors— and
the burdens they bear. Because just in case you’re wondering, your
presence definitely still illuminates whenever I hear your name or
a reference to the universe we built around each other, you bounce
around the padded walls of my brain screaming LET GO. *Let go and
I’ll tell you a really funny joke about straitjackets— and the
hugs they give.

We stain our shirts with oil
spills
as we ash our cigarettes
into the mouths of blue whales
and pretend that we don’t choke
when we say,

The world is our oyster.

We should pry her, unwillingly
open
and utilize her
most intimate resources
to better our-slick-selves.

There’s always somebody, willing
and ready
to cross the line.

Teach a man to fish
and he’ll learn to **** dolphins.

We aren’t the painters or the paintings,
we’re the products;
oil, rigs, and watercolors
used
to get
the job
done.

I'm a lightweight and a cheap date.

I've got reassurance in my corner
and I'm willing to stand my ground.
I will not hit the mat.
Even if I fall, I'll probably fall but I will not stay down.
Right hook and I'm on par.

Wounded. But standing.

Round three.

My bout with confidence -- a true heavyweight.

The only thing that will collapse
is a little tent labeled insecurity,
it's a ****-yellow tent they typically set up near the entrance
staffed with two guards built like bulldozers,
who have the longevity of snow -- and fall just as easily
because they know the truth,
because they only speak in lies,
because the only security they offer is the lack thereof,
because they know that I have used words with more purpose
than they harness in any of their possessions.

Jab. Gut. Eye.
Broken.
Vessel.
Skin.
Dizzy.

And I'm fourteen thousand feet above -- and you look radiant awesome,
from up here you look stellar and harmonious.
From up here any omnipresence would be content with its creation.
From up here everything shimmers.

Stars. Blurred. Focus. Pulled.

It's when we get down -- face to face --
on the surface -- in the details --
this is where we find discomfort
embodied in the discontent of being knocked out
by truth.

Remember, that chaos first was a primordial deity,
Chaos; the nothingness from which all else sprang
headfirst and heartfelt,
half-naked and handsome,
hook, line and... halibut.

All of this,
every measurable moment,
every particle,
every object set forth in motion
sprang from a void so harmoniously
as if the absence of everything was kissed
sudden
by the presence of something.

Often depicted with wings, a bow, and a quiver of arrows,
Cupid, son of Venus - goddess of love,
son of Mercury - god of trade,
his story,
almost identical in Greek and in Roman
mythology,
his story, about a couple of gods
who seem so inherently human by nature,
jolted by jealousy,
dumbstruck by beauty,
hellbent on immortality,
his story has been hallmarked
as red hot velvet rose petal fine wine
and symmetrical hearts.
Wrapped in tin foil red ribbons
bitter-sweetly sugarcoated
dipped in thin layer of chocolate
taste-tested and lover approved.

Remember that scene in Hook
where Tinkerbell leaves her footprints on Peter's chest,
well that's you and that's me--
touch me where my heart beats
because I don't ever wanna be a lost boy.
I wanna grow up like a good bedtime story
with morals
and purpose,
I wanna have meaning.

You might say that Cupid found himself.
You might say that Psyche found her soul.
You might say that Tinkerbell was just faking it--
with the clapping.
Truth is, we can never know the whole story--
the complete truth.
Problem is, we think we can
and act like we do.
So the only time we mean what we say
is the first time we say it,
every utterance thereafter is just an attempt
at recreating a moment.

I love you
is a paraphrase
that deserves three separate ellipses
because there's a lot left unsaid.

I (distinctively remember shadow-boxing with)
love (against a star-dotted sky anchored to a
moonlight so vibrant it can only be compared to)
you (and your tidal waves).

And that's where I fell
headfirst and handsome.

I (was punched-drunk by a kiss so breathless
that it spiked my dopamine to a volume
that can only be described as) love
(in that every time my neurotransmitters feel) you
(they spin themselves dizzy and dance to your science).

There was a moment in the absence of everything
when I was kissed silent by the presence of something.

Hold me to your breastplate.

I don't ever wanna go back to the void.



*02/09/2010