Nothing was particularly perfect
But it was found somewhere
Between that and far beyond
Pleasant. Like the second
Sip of a cold cream soda.

Nothing was quite there
But I could still reach
The stars with my fingers
And it was familiar without
Déjà vu and without having
Happened before.

It could have been the thunder
From an open window
Or the domestic backseat
Bass of music that I
Didn’t know. A twilight
Of tiredness too, while
The trees across the spinach
Fields were illuminated.

The sidewash of
The headlights showing only
The front half of ridges
And guardrails and contemporary
Nuances of a roadtrip.

But that was it. It wasn’t
A roadtrip, the destination
Was near and out the windows
Every light was
A step under neon.

It was perfect,
Though far from it
And directly outside of it.

i’ve spent the last
six months of my life
dying to die
with no results.
and in that time i’ve
been walking
on a sidewalk that
is crooked and cracked
into some godforsaken
place. through my journeys
i’ve come to rely
on two certainties:
that i will go to bed
unsatisfied and hungry.

and every night is
a rainy one and cats eat
the fur and bones of dogs dead
in the flooded gutters. the grey
monoliths of the city
are always a step away, but
i don’t get any closer.

and if i could give back
all the cigarette ash and whiskey
i’ve drank i’d do it because
i’d be losing blank meaningless
memories, or at least
they mean nothing to me. i can’t
say the same about
those people in the memories.

and i passed the corner
where i sat drunk on the brick
with my friend, smoking
a cigarette and i remember
telling him that it was
going to be alright. i don’t
know if i was lying or if
i didn’t know the truth
but he left.

and i walked by the home
of my first love and the windows
were dark and the cars were
gone from the driveway.

and i found myself in front
of the house of the girl
i loved who didn’t love me
and the air was black, save
for the glare of a lighter through
the rain and i remembered
a dream i had.

My collarbone was damp cotton
as shuddering turned to heaving
and his limp neck sighed.
I figured the only advice
I could give was my
favorite handkerchief
and the repeated whispers of
“It’s going to be all right. It’s okay.”

In the artic air the puddle
on my shoulder
froze over and my coat wouldn’t
stay put without the silk
sliding around and folding
into origami cranes
that were pecking at my
head, asking incessantly
as to why I didn’t stay
in the garage and help
him on his half-finished

car. His heart was breaking
and for the rest of the
night my shirt was wet and cold.

It’s just



because now
the ants were never in my head until
then and these cogs need lubricating
too whirring in faster agitation.

Now I want.
in four years time there
will be four years placed here
again, now.

It’s just



if I remembered you and of
your mural I

can’t imagine not sitting
in the kitchen on
the floor, now.

Now, the similar
scene in
“Mona’s” bed
room.

(I do not
know Mona.
I did not
meet Mona that
night.)

It’s just



Now there isn’t
a cure for
the

spine warmth you
gave me

and the base
of my neck is

on fire.

I wish that when you moved your head
you were turning over to tell me
something beautiful and that when
you adjusted your legs it would
be as subtly purposeful
as when I moved mine
because when I breathed
it felt like our bodies
were flowing together sinusoidally
from head to foot. And our hands
snarled, hardly together, close to
thick barbed wire our fingernails
scratching each other’s palms. Despite
mental unrest for two hours
I did not feel uncomfort, my chest
warming your soft shoulderblades.