at last -
our routines collide;
a daily walk, kiss, sweat,
our letters turned post-its
phone-calls to real life sound waves
bounding home.
The strange comfort
of arguing - knowing you're in the next room
not the next stretch
of foam-etched ocean
away from a 'sorry'


and knowing
it still grows, away from the distance
the aching, the halflife,
it's growing,

maybe more than before.

My father is an old truck
Sunbleached red

Breathes broken bottles
A faulty catalytic converter throat
All the smoke trapped inside

But the nicotine helps his brain function

Cinderblock sturdy
But skinny
A single pillar holding the roof up

A man built in a time when you had to tell things it was time to die
Leave them in a field somewhere and forget about

How do you write a love poem to a car of a man
Built in a time without airbags?
A car of a man who crashed with you inside so many times
You learned about rebuilding from experience
From trial and error

And how do you forgive a man who can no longer tell you he’s sorry?

Trucks
Don’t feel
Don’t give up
Don’t hurt you on purpose

Sometimes something inside just breaks
And no one catches it
And maybe you crash
Break a nose
Black an eye

As far as I know
I am not a broken man
But I’ve learned where all the parts go

And if I am my father’s son
A mechanic more often than a car maybe
Then I will be fine

The truck is dying
And beyond repair

You forgive it for that
It is old and past its time

And maybe it can’t say that it’s sorry

But there is a field somewhere that you plan on leaving it
To collect weeds
And rust
And be forgotten

So you forgive it

For a moment, right now, pretend that forgiveness will never feel like taking a bet. That the phrase, "I love you," Is not just another form of turrets. Pretend that you've got a pocket heavy with change and you walk like a wishing well wind-chime. And you've got a nickel in there for every time you cried for something. And your chance to change is as easy as flicking your thumb. Launching a coin into a pool of water. Pretend that you've got a penny melted and molded from the iron in your blood. Pretend that that wish will come true. Pretend that I just put mine down on a bet on you. Double or nothing, because ******* kid, to me, you mean something. And I don't mean any big life success. This is deathbed memories type ****. Who was there when it mattered type ****. Pizza on the car hood when the mice are asleep in the oven and the birds have nested in the old stove burners. Finding safety in a hammock held up by the corners of a mouth. Warmth in arms when you realized how cold it was actually going to be down south. For a moment right now pretend. That you've got a friend with a body made of drawbridge and hands strong enough to close it when you need to. Eyes like a moat. A blanket quilted from your lover's muscles. For a moment right now pretend that that friend isn't me. It's you. Forget God. Forget finding forgiveness and love there. On the inside that friend is you. Making penny bets like a Philippino woman in the smoking section of a casino. Double or nothing. 50/50. Pretend now that I'll be there too. Tossing coins in a well. Wishing only the best for you.

He's new - but not like, "brand new"
so I guess really, he's old
been around for a while
sitting on my shelf,
looking pretty, waiting for his turn to play

He's not charming,
and he'd never bring me flowers
doesn't call me pretty - hates it even more,
when I ask him to
but he stays
and I guess staying is what I want him to do

He comes to me in dreams
'cause in the waking life, he's too busy
has no time for me
but he's there, waiting
sometimes I can feel him

Mama says I can't have it both ways
what I want only comes in movies,
or books, the kind with long haired lovers
staring longingly at each other,
a breathless all or nothing kind of love

No, that's not real
and fairytales are for girls
they can **** you fast,
or let you die slow
that's the modern kind of love

When you told me you were pregnant
I was on the verge of passing out
I was high on pills and coke
And other stuff I shouldn’t be writing about

So then you started packing
You were leaving for good this time
And though my eyes were closed
I knew half the **** you took was mine

I could have told you that I loved you
Found some words to make you stay
But the drugs had silenced my tongue
And soon after that everything went gray

I dreamt I was on an island
A paradise surrounded by the sea
Finally I had found the peace within
While hidden from the rest of humanity

Suddenly I saw a parade of beautiful women
Best described by what they didn’t wear
And because it was my fantasy
I was surprised to see you were there

I awoke during the night
At first I thought that I was blind
Then I realized you stole my lamps
You only left the stuff you couldn’t carry behind

I had to stumble around in the dark
Searching through my apartment for a fix
But you had flushed my stash down the toilet
You could never resist being a *****

I finally found enough to get me by
Then played hide and seek with my veins
I shot up but was immediately brought down
Because all I could think of were baby names

I remembered the hopes I had as a boy
Versus the man I eventually became
My child would accomplish very little
If he was forced to share my last name

Why did you think I’d want to be a father?
Did you think it would matter or that I’d care?
Your announcement failed to shock me
I’m always too detached and self-aware

Were you ****** up when you chose me?
Never sober enough to leave?
Did you think you could change me?
You’re too strung out and too naive

Forever fooled by an addiction
That brings you to your knees
Now fated to give birth to a baby
That will share its mother’s disease

I came here to drown my sorrows
but they're resilient little *******
and always find a way
of swimming back to the surface

I got nothin.
It's sad, this aching to write and write,
But the words coming out sound so contrite.

Like that.

I stand up, stare down at my page.
I see the lines, those imaginary borders
between my stubborn head,
and my bleeding heart.

I pray that the division will have a remainder.

That forgotten piece, the inconsequential.

Because the remainder is the thing-
That space between there and here,
Where time sits in a chair,
staring at its own hands.

That no man's land where eraser crumbs
become mountains worth climbing.

Where the fairy tales of our own beginnings gather breath,
Spreading wings over the valleys of our truth.