I felt like a backpacker that night.
I think it was the katydids.
At home it’s the frogs,
all shouting over each other, but somehow
finding a rhythm.

But here,
a pulse presses into me in my sleep
and I roll over to face the seething embers.
I know I’ve drawn things out with X,
but this is what narcissism means to me:
stoking the embers each time.

Tonight I am a backpacker
on the west side of a mountain.
Having slept through the sunset,
now I’m lying awake—
sleepless and small—
as ants find their way across my skin.

If they’re not sleeping, they must be working—
long jaunts between brief naps—
while the queen sleeps.

When I’m home,
I’ll close my windows and,
drown these embers in dry reds—
shiraz and merlot—
and sleep like the queen for once.

Mimesis:  
the deliberate imitation of the behavior of one group of people by another as a factor in social change.*


Somewhere, someone
knows these  colors to be home.
Not only the sandy complexion of the boots,
but the laces slipping and sliding
into loops and over
soft tongues and slowly pulling,
constricting, suffocating.
Even its shape—
the shallow curve of a man’s ankle,
the slow descent to the tips of his toes—
these are the sandy silhouettes and generous hills
recalled from their youth.

Someone, somewhere
admires jagged peaks of pale crested mountains.
The same jagged peaks
they have seen rising and breaking
in the wrinkles of loose fitting fatigues,
and complimented by vests,
spotted with the gentle green pastures
once ruled by their jidd’s sheep.

There are chains of mountains
as wide as chests under Mandarin collars
and just as full of pockets and pouches
as military issued BDU’s—

but this is cheap imitation.
It is a failed mimesis.

I’ve noticed at times
bustle and grime— ironically—
maintains close proximity
to reprieves from high anxiety.

It reminds me of the dissociative
peace of Clay street,
the way the shadows fall in reverse order
over the alphabetically arranged streets.

All the while the boisterous nights
on the Brooklyn block persist just half
a train ride away and we go to spend
our night touching elbows with strangers

and bumping into ***** walls until
we stumble home, kicking litter and
******* in flowerpots to watch
the sun shed light on the streets—

this time in perfect order.
From seven floors up, we watch
the blissful morning with bloodshot eyes
and coffee in hand.

I was walked through corridors
of hardened steel, floating in a harbor.
My young eyes did not marvel
at the way it sat above the water.
My eyes drifted toward the sharp flashes
of filler metal, melting in between two joints.
I was told not to look directly at it;
I couldn’t look away.

My bones grew,
and my structure was fused
into its permanent fixture and
today I’m given a mask,
heavy tinted black glass over my eyes.  
I’m not told to look away,
merely blinded.
Watching the same work I marveled at years ago
hands working tirelessly at a task,
performing flawlessly,
and when I close my eyes,

the spark persists.

Even now floating metal masses,
though seemingly improbable,
still do not amaze me
like the light created
in broad daylight.
But even this joint
is not fused flawlessly,
smooth and stubborn,
metal makes sure of this.

If I have to tell myself
on a Wednesday—
a Wednesday morning no less—
that I should think
a little more than usual
because I am, after all,
getting high and still
a little drunk,
then I’m making another drink.

But now, when I get smoke in my eyes
or puke before noon
or spend all my money online
or eat all the oreos
I won’t know where I’ll be tomorrow.
There are only so many
stop signs to steal,
and besides,
they always get replaced.

But I still want to stay drunk
and spend my Wednesday mornings high
and puke when I wanna
and spend my whole paycheck online
and eat more oreos.

If I could settle down,
then I would settle down.
Isn’t that how the song goes?

I’ve spent five nights this week
unmade and shivering.
Where have you been sleeping?
Have you found another,
softer and younger than me?

Your imprint is fading and
I miss your sweet weight upon me.
I’ve laid under you through innumerable nights—
you tossing and turning.
Laid under you each night because I have
nothing else to offer.

Will you make me look good again—
neat, warm and inviting?
I guess I’ll become a sleepless mattress,
a dusty mattress in a quiet room
waiting for you to come back to me.
Or will you put me out
with a sign that says I’m free?

It’s ironic when you think
I should let things just be the way they are
and appreciate them as they exist—
the way they exist being the way
you’ve created them.

I think of it
the way I think of someone who
cooks a meal
with too much salt,
not enough sugar
or too long
at the wrong temperature
but stubbornly cleans their plate
night after night.

Yet, when I forget
that fragile egos need praise
or that insecurity seeks external validation
or even just the extra tablespoon
of garlic,
I need improvement.

She says she’s moving.
                                      I feel sick and I’m reminded
of how my brother outgrew my hand me downs.
I still haven’t washed the tea cups since the last time
                       she was here
                                              and now she’s leaving.

Contrary to my feelings,
being outgrown can be something
overgrown.
When was the last time
I complained about
my garden being overgrown?    

She says she’s moving.
                                      I feel relief and I’m reminded
of my brother rooting through the three foot dill weeds
and coming out with potatoes, squash, and the seasons last
                             starved tomatoes;
                                                       ­   I’m ready for the new season.

My eyes are drawn toward your toes
as frequently as lover’s eyes
do meet and tie their souls in knots.

Your toes that grasp and stretch and lift
you up to reach the chocolate chips
you keep behind the chia seeds.

Your toes that press and push and dig
into dirt and earth then sheets at 3
when warm air beckons— take a nap

my eyes are drawn toward your toes
and glide over freckled skin that makes
me scramble after memories,

past parted lips and perfect cheeks
to lurid pools of cerulean
that find us back in bed by noon.