glamourous indie rock n' roll
orbited our tiny kitchen as i kissed
the nape of her neck.

lauren sliced the avocados.
i prepped the pasta.
our neat little domestic life.

her eyes would ignite mine,
as she spoke of reinventing
the world with her love.

every word rang with perfect truth,
for she had dissolved my callused heart,
and focused my idiot head.

and that night i lied in blankets of her
mercy.
as she licked the wicked wounds
of complacent cruelty.

i've never missed her more.

she was needy.
i was broke.


she was a mistake,
and i was tacked on
like the punch line to
a bad joke.


bought her chocolate milk and pop tarts,
bought gas and cough drops.


she said she'd pay me back in kisses.
kisses are nice,
but kisses aren't legal tender.


she made me dream death.
why would i hang on to her,
when i couldn't even afford the rope
to hang myself.

I put two handles of whiskey on the counter,
and the cashier asked if I was having a party.
I told her I was preparing for a weekend by myself.
She didn't know what to say.
I told her life should mean more than this, paid and walked away.

On our way home
rain along passenger windowpane
after party still stirring me, blurring me
our flesh melds leather
rolling stop gasoline haze
and your finger is in my mouth
adore you a dumb animal for you
over the railroad tracks
and you're vibrating,
I'm transforming, the steering
wheel spinning need you
supine and suggestive smoking
my vices,
the only things I'd give my
vices up are my vices
the sun can wait
the sun can obscure
dwell indulge imprison
please

Each morning I tune into my mirror,
watch
as life gets old.
And I wonder if anyone ever did it better to this point.
Handled it with more strength or integrity.
If I'm the worst or the best,
or the grey or the barnacle suckling the grey.
Each morning while stuck in traffic,
I ask
if anyone else sees the same circle ****,
the masochism of the daily grind sign-up sheet
covered with signatures,
if all the bloodsuckers,
lions, and pallbearers
have any knowledge or drive of another direction.
Each night I accuse a different soul of a heinous lie.
Certainly,
somebody is responsible for the routine, the chasm,
the symphony of silent screams, fired in the name of
a lesser meaning.

How many times and on how many screens has JFK been assassinated? she asks a few minutes into the commute.

Someone has said that to me before, I say.

And I notice, now for the first time, even she is a rerun or a ghost
or an unfortunate reminder of the one who came before her,
from the artfully mismatched polish on her toenails to the way her wrists wrap around each other as she talks her quiet talk, her fingertips balancing her iPhone, which streams Jackie Then Kennedy scrambling toward the back of the Cadillac. Its the Zapruder footage in slow motion and somehow in HD, and she touches the thumbs up icon when the footage comes to a close.

Across from me sits a dead man. I'm sure of it—his death. He lounges in himself, his belly fat imperialistic in its expanse, moving beyond beltline and claiming a space all its own on the torn, blue cushioned seat. The dead man looks a bit like Marlon Brando, post-Tango in Paris, when the depression set in and with it the weight, but like Brando, there's still a cool magic in the deep lines of the dead man's forehead, something forlorn and knowing in the drag of his eyelids.

It's here that I remember I'm a writer. And moments like these, I'm supposed to render in belabored yet fragmented ways.

That's ego, she says, not looking up from her phone.

What's that? I say.

The way you pigeonhole me. Rerun, ghost, et cetera, she says. Maybe I've made love to a sad man like you before. Maybe you're a trigger for me. Maybe I know everyone you're going to be, everything you're going to say.  Like I was going to tell you these pants, these pants are lenin pants and I got them from Bali. And I didn't say it because I already knew your response.

Are they ethically made? we say smugly and simultaneously.

And the subway car does that screeching sound you hear in movies and the tunnels outside do that motion blur you see in movies and I try to kiss her but she says that uh-uh cowboy line you know from movies.

Brando had affairs, I say.

Kennedy had affairs, she says.

Have you ever had an affair?

It was exhausting, she says, the performance required. All the effort in your vocal affectations, those terrible 3 p.m. lunches, the pet names, your obligatory passion and one-liners, the secrecy for the sake of secrecy, the purchase and disposal of lingerie. If I could get the time back—

I'd spend it alone with a glass of red wine and a good book, we say.

When I lived in the city, night, true night, never came.
The natural day gave way to the artificial day,
a day made possible by streetlight, by humming billboard.
With sick pinks and near-white greys, the early hours
hiccuped away. I slept or didn't. And this time in my life,
as any time in my life, is marked by a woman.

I won't say much about her. She was a performer,
and I've never been a steady fan of much of anything.
So when I kissed her the last time, I kissed her like it
was the last time, a kiss calibrated to say, "It's been."
When she kissed me the last time, she kissed me
like she didn't know it was the last time,
a kiss not so much a kiss as a mouth half-opened eternity,
where the sun didn't shine, nor was there night.

rag in your mouth,
sweat gliding
along the contours of your sockets.

lights on.

no pretending.
look at my ******* face.
love only me tonight.

i'm more than alive.
i swear i'll tear your lids
if you so much as close them.

lights on.

blanket my flaw.
make me easy
to consume.

lights out.

we can pretend
i am one you want.
i am pretty.

lights out.

i am less alive,
but that's hard to tell
with the

lights out.

The skin of your shoulders,
the skin of my teeth,
tripping tips of fingers,
eyes retreat and re-meet.

We made a mess
of your hair, sweet Lioness,
you grappled and tore,
bit, I kept it to a dull roar.

You, you did coo,
as I saw nothing through,
coos for crooning,
surreal, surreal, surreal.

Excite the hunter,
excite the huntress,
as we take turns playing the prey.

Levitate the weight,
paw at my soul,
I lick your sores,
and beautify the remains.

We made a mess
of your hair, sweet Lioness,
returned and renewed
a sense of pulse, a sense of the thrill.

You claim me again and again,
claw into me, spilling my demons,
whispers smoke, chaotic melody.

An overgrown field of sheets
laid flat,
no question, no success or distraction,
panting, panting, panting.

A barbaric itch slithers underneath my collar.

While chairs scuffle upon overgrown tile,
the brutality of our chance meeting gets
my finger nails scraping--

you keep tossing what's left of your hair,
as you siphon through the greasy grime
of your fought for fast food,
and rattle my cage with foreign sentiment--

you smirk to break my narrowing gaze,
did you wear that same black blouse
when we launched into our old mess?
The one we left on your bedroom floor,
and I really, really want to know
where that mess could go--

when I dream,
we simplify.
You are free of clothing,
and I'm free to feed on your body and time,
the ache satisfies,
but as children run past us,
as acne teens screech--
the plight of getting hot
and never off
roars in the midnight corridors
of my starving brain.

One touch--
a broken nail,
a sharpened tooth,
a swift tug of my scalp--
could really, really help
me cope with your amorous toxicity.

Don't have friends that work at liquor stores.
They know what's good.
They get it cheap.
They have lots of friends they want you to meet.

I drank so much ***.

Quality ****.

I'm still drunk,
in the morning I hope this makes sense.

Here's what happened:

I went to the store and bought a mop,
our bathroom and kitchen floors are caked with
a various assortment of coffee, cheese, grease, and lots of other
mysterious things.

Clayton shot me a line,
said, "I got the *** you need to try."
I went to his place around 11.

The only honest girl,
the only girl I care to speak to,
the only girl I think I could even be attracted to,
had a heavy heart for her ex-one reemerged,
and all I know is he will make me further obsolete.

I got to Clayton's.
We smoked.
Watched a classic noir film.
Drank. Drank. Drank.

"Want to smoke a hookah?"

"Sure, man. It's whatever."

Off to Nathan's we went.

Nathan lives with a Persian girl
with impeccable skin.

Nathan has a Mexican lady interest,
who I wanted to pin.

I controlled my intake to purgatory states.
I played sweet.
I played collected.
I played drinking games.

I texted another ex.
A different one this time.
She didn't want to come over.
She's smarter than I remembered.

Clayton,
you are my destroyer.
I'll see you tomorrow
to **** myself again.

Hayley Fienne scattered herself a year ago today. A hammer. A trigger. I sent flowers to a funeral home in Chandler, OK. I called. Said, "I can't imagine what you are going through" and something about how time turns the past into a form of fiction. DeLillo wrote that, I think.

Her mom said, "That's not true. That's not true."

And I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't known Hayley like I knew Hayley. She used to do these oil paintings on the nights she knew she wasn't going to class in the morning. I've a layman's knowledge of visual art but even I could tell her work was real. As opposed to what? I don't know. You just felt it. It kicked you in the gut, left you spinning around the room, asking every ******* in tweed, "Can I get some water?"

There was one large canvas in particular that stuck out. She called it "Dissolution."

The work depicted a seemingly amorphous spiral of headlight blues and star whites against the murky black of space. In the dead center of the piece she painted the face of a young man, broken into quadrants. The face was nothing more than a faint veil. If you scanned the canvas, you'd miss it.

When she showed the piece at a gallery event, featuring the work of outgoing seniors, I asked her who the man was.

"It's Jesus."

"You gave him a shave."

"It's actual Jesus. It's 'I'm thinking of converting to Buddhism' Jesus. It's lonely, masturbatory Jesus. It's the Jesus who stares at a ceiling fan wondering why Peter won't text him back," she said. "And above all, it's the Jesus God asks a little too much of, the Jesus that calls in sick."

I said I was unaware such a Jesus existed.

"Exists. Dealing with impossible quotas, he has to shave."

"I think your Jesus looks like you."

"He is."



Now it's a year later. I find comfort in the painting, allowing the erratic brush strokes, both fleeing and advancing, to lull me to--what? Just lull, I grant, aimless and asking answerless questions.

I think about her at the end, at her end-- but not the violence of it all. No, I think of the release.

No intended romance. I simply wonder how she would have wanted that final let-go in life's calendar marked by letting-goes to wrap. I imagine her body separating from her mind, her mind separating from her memories, her memories separating from her name. I think of her matter fractured and dispersed, directed where the universe, in its imperialistic expanse, requires.

I call her mom. Say, "I can't believe it's been a year" and something about how outer space makes me think of Hayley.

Her mom says, "I don't understand."



After I hang up I look at the painting. I look at Hayley's Jesus. And I think in memories, memories that may or may not have happened, I think of them in my chest--not my head. I think about mercy. I think about the infinite. And is there a place where they intersect?

and saying,
"You signed up for this."
I only speak to myself.
Like most artists,
I barnacle stories out of friends,
without any return discourse,
until they are deflated.
I discard them and search for
the next inspiration.

I go for walks with a dim moon
and shy stars for company.
I see faces through apartment windows,
lit by infomercial-spouting television sets.
I pass neighborhood after neighborhood
bearing rustic names, Pine-this-or-that,
Cedar Bend, or some similar ****;
yet the natural world hasn't been tangible for sometime.

Joy is a mirage that passes with the night and the liquor.
Sunshine turns it to vapor,
as readers crash cars into fellow readers to
better understand empathy.

My collection of the arts does nothing aside from gather dust-
a conversation piece, an aesthetic to allude to-
but nothing of worth or personal weight.

We write to change the world,
to melt swords; to further the slaughter,
but the blood in my mouth has left a bitter taste.
There are always too many mirrors,
and I'm sick of my own face.
If all is vanity,
how is it all capable of breaking me?

I always loved her best,
with her sharp pupils,
irises of oil,
her crimson hair
and
contagious smile,
but that didn't stop
my callused mind
from commanding her, "cease to feel",

but what a gift she gave in return,
the girl I've always loved best,
the first ache in months,
the first spill from my lids,
in a few years,
when she simply returned fire with,
"give me some rest."

Now, I sit calmly, tearing at my hair,
trying to figure which of my so-called friends
can get me to outer space,
for the duration of the rest of my years,
making my gnashing eternity go
down with a little more ease.

lucid in America,
     lazy, loose,
ladies of marble, hearts of stone,
the clouds are gathering,
     the trees sparse,
     coarse winds cool, collide,
realign the telephone lines,
smoke exits the nostrils in good time,
     three-piece suits,
     hard handshakes,
     heydays and hollidays both end in headaches,
lucid, loose, tight as a feather,
     riding the Times and drinking  empty cups,
     full and flavored, gentle, gentle,
     the melody is quaint,
     but the melody will play,
sing easy, kissing the graves,
the skeletons are lonely, ask them to stay,
brief and brittle, the remnants of the middle,
quake and make me realize the end has and always
will be nigh,
    egotripping brothers and daughters at pearly gates,
    walking crates half in dismay, half soaked in rays,
interlaced, tracing barefoot on interstates,
humming with the meadowlarks, humming at the dark,
sometimes we're art,
mostly we're stark,
      dancing and dying at once,
      trival yet trying, the beauty we're still buying,
      lucid, free, and easy,
knowingly drifting the pains, the plains
      of America.

Mama,
I'm growing horns.
I speak in smoke,
it fogs the retinas of
every green-eyed girl
with something to lose.

Mama,
my smile grows sharper.
I relish in rolling eyes,
discovering the enemy gene,
shooting the **** with the ******,
plotting revenge on every Shiva.

Mama,
deny my black irises and hungry crystal hands.
I'm looking for grey leaves to crush,
I'm looking for heathen hymns to memorize,
tasting bleak humanity with each handshake,
and half-*** suicide attempt.

Mama,
in kaleidoscope memories you will find me.
Distort your love in retrospect,
sell my stories to distant, dusty cousins,
lie until i had a heyday,
but don't waste a prayer or a wish upon me.

unapproachable
she, an EMSA driver, framed by gasoline rainbows and held together by hairpins,
sat on the back of an ambulance in a Valero station's lot,
corner of 2nd and Kelly, a passerby might have thought her waiting,
but I knew that to be wrong
that radio would go off in the cab, heart attack, broken hip, sideswipe
she'd remain right there picking at the sticky barcode on the back
of her Bic lighter, she couldn't be bothered with the sound of sirens
she had a history and didn't want anymore dates to dictate and memorize
she looked through me past Fox Hollow Lane, past the unwatched children,
past the rusting panels of ice cream truck, into that eternal place that
I thought only French singers' eyes on album covers in the sixties could find---
unapproachable
but

"I'm madly in love with you."

"I wish that could mean more."

"Me too."

Tethered to concrete,
enlightened by laptop screen,
the summer went out with a scream,
autumn ends like flicking light switch.

I'm cashing in time cards with three,
Diseased, daring to get off cheap
with three sets of teeth,
crooked spines,
and
milk thistle dreams.

The bluebirds you can keep,
over-the-shoulder vultures--my scene.
Death hands me a cup of coffee for free,
and I have written up to the ending.
I have written up to the ending.
Ending the writing,
waiting for you to compose
the siren's song--
whether in hospital gown
or naked and strapped to splintered mast,
autumn ends by flicking a switch,
while your screams echo backwards
in the chambers of my memory.

"I don't know how to say, what I want you to say."

"Please try."

It was strange and didn't register as a serious request. She wanted to take care of me. Nothing ******. Just a meal here and there, maybe a little tidying up of the house.

She wanted me to talk. And that part, the talking, always felt transactional, a repayment of her cleaning and cooking. She didn't ask questions. Just nudged me on with emphatic nods in the living room, sitting six feet away from me in a stray office chair. She listened as if I were recounting a past life of her own.

I told her once I loved her little feet, especially in those heels. The next week she wore sneakers. She was older but not old, fifty or so. Two children a few years younger than myself.

She made a point of not staying past ten or drinking more than a single glass of wine.

I was always a little embarrassed by the state of the house. The ***** clothes strewn across the room indistinguishable from the clean. Earmarked novels, long novels, the kind you could bludgeon a person to death with, gathered dust on the coffee table, the desk, the kitchen counter. She touched them, fascinated by what secrets or sage advice might lay within, but she never read a page.

One night I realized I'd never said her name out loud. And she said, "That's impossible. Of course you have." But neither of us could think of a particular moment. And just when I was about to, she said, "Why break the streak?"

We grew more comfortable with one another. She wore less makeup and let her age show. She'd show up in sweatpants. Some nights we'd order Chinese and play that familiar game where every fortune is punctuated with "in bed." A stranger will change your life forever tomorrow in bed. Lies lead to great calamities in bed. So on.

We called them dates, our lunches in the break room, taken each day around 2 p.m. She would bring me leftovers from the night before, always making a point of saying something like, "My husband just couldn't finish it."

She brought baked ziti on a Wednesday last March. I told her it was the best I'd ever eaten as I forked it out of the tupperware container, the edges still hot from the microwave. She said she hadn't been intimate in two years.

"Is that possible?"

"It is."

*** didn't transpire immediately. We worked up to it.

I liked the way she directed me. I'd never experienced anything quite like it. She'd tell me to touch myself while she held me in her arms, she'd snag a handful of my hair, she'd dig her nails into my thigh, but her words were always beautiful, whispered, tender, spoken in the sacred and profane language of lovers.

I'd come and she'd make a comment about the quantity, comparing it to her husband's.

In the serene afterglow before we toweled ourselves off, I'd rest my head against her breast, and I'd say, "I could stay here forever."

"Every man I've ever slept with has said that."

"How many men have you slept with?"

"Has anyone ever liked the answer to that question?"

"I don't mind. We could compare data."

"Including you?"

"Including me."

"Two."

She crawled out of the bed and turned on some music, Neil Young, "A Man Needs a Maid."

"I always felt guilty for liking this song," I said.

"Me too," she said.

We drank coffee on the back porch before the sun came up. "There was a man," she said, "before I married. He was an artist, a painter. We were in college and I loved the deliberate way he spoke. He'd think, sometimes for a full minute, before he said anything. There was a softness in his voice that required you to pay closer attention to him. Your voice is not all that different."

The Department of Transportation began tearing down the houses in my neighborhood to make room for an additional two lanes of traffic. By October mine was the only house left on the block. The apocalypse in miniature. We'd drive by piles of brick and fencing and she'd begin to cry.

It was a particularly brutal winter, and she buried her car in mud and snow when she tried to back out of the yard on the day of her son's graduation. I offered to drive her.

"No, no, no no no."

We sat in the snow, our backs against her car. She leaned in and said, "Your cologne is new."

"Yes."

"You've cut your hair."

"Yes."

"Your shirt, it's actually ironed."

Silence for a beat.

"Who is she?"

Do you remember, sister,
when mercy was a right?
I'm too tired to treat it
like a title to be earned.

Sister,
I have commited no crime,
short of high.
I have done no wrong,
that at one point I didn't see as right.

Do you remember, sister,
when love was a promise?
I'm too selfish to seek it
like a prize to be professed.

Sister,
I have seen no sunrise,
that didn't sink me.
I have told no lie,
to someone who wouldn't believe me.

Marie's in-laws start bashing the bell,
a Quasimodo supper for the reckless, the insane.
It's two hits of Lily's blue, four pocket shots of ***,
it's the backdoor, it's the snowstorm, it's the 100th of December, it's the cell phone;
it's nostalgic.

I call Katherine, my sweet Indian princess. She talks in Mexican smoke rings,
and laughs only in a bed of Peruvian blues.

Marie describes her as, "Uh-huh, her", and Katherine's James describes me as, "******".
So, when Katherine picked me up behind States Street,
I licked her espresso skin, I kissed secondhand, and benediction, benediction.

Choirs of angels moved me, while we ****** under moonlight in her drug supplier's driveway.
I pulled her hair, beads of sweat danced and gleamed around me,
I got a call, I got a call,
I finished and took the call,
"Hello. Yeah, I'm sorry. Just stepped out for a second I'll be right back. Love you too."
Back to the mundane with a enough fix of fantasy to get me through the month.

Come on over,
and we'll craft a new key to the kingdom,
all I want is to cut the seams,
pulverize the patterns,
rewrite the Hamlets and all the works of Hemingway,
what are you doing now?
nothing?
great.
Come on over,
I have a handle of SoCo,
I know it's your favorite,
we'll shoot the **** and
chitty-chat about how
it's so easy to drink.
Come on over,
and brilliant minds
will strum guitars,
**** ivories,
croon with weary pipes,
all in plain sight.
Come on over,
this world wasn't made for us,
so let's force it into submission
with controversy and batshit revelry.
Let's lay on the carpet,
and swoon to the love that courses
in our veins,
let's help me to the tile
when the evening's endeavors come back up,
let's write a new Odyssey,
let's sing a new American anthem,
let's light the apartment on fire,
let's talk about how badass my girlfriend is,
what are you doing right now?
nothing?
great.
Come on over,
and I'll be your slave.
Whip me with criticism and fright,
I'll give comfort and brighten
the corners,
mix you a drink,
play you a Monk tune,
dance like I invented it,
and make you nostalgic for the 70s
like I lived each millisecond of the decade.
What are you right now?
Nothing?
Let's scare the ******,
the politicians,
the folks keeping scores,
the drunkards down the road,
self immolation?
Great.

When you hit the bottom,
come to me,
your world-savvy
Midnight Man.

He's giving her a piggyback ride across Harvey Avenue.
She's barefoot, her legs tightly wrapped around his waist.
In her hands a killer pair of heels click against each other.

She whispers something to him and laughs.
I want to know what it is--but to know would
unravel both space and time--it would make this
Monday night, in this anodyne, red-brick district
partly mine. Walking past, I let them go with a nod
and a "beautiful night."

the
    blackbirds
               have gone
                     silent,

and
    the winter
            is talking
                    of revenge,

and
     in weary
               acceptance
                    i begged,

"take your toll, make this wait end."

there's no rip cord --
your stuck in this stinking shell,
success measured by inches,
lipstick badged for lions,
punchlines thrown like lettuce
at the bravo males,

there's no rip cord --
the evaluation preemptive,
a crooked eyebrow and a sigh
with the lights on,
a slow grind of inadequacy
leading to a clumsy spew,

there's no rip cord --
so most bludgeon bashful cheeks
with wedding bands --
a life locked in rolling pupil sheets,
a kid, a fence, a lawyer, and
an itchy trigger finger
stirred and served with
a green olive.

I ran into her briefly,
Saturday morning,
while I was coming up,
from the alcohol-laden
Friday night.

Her hair was down.
She said I looked down.
Criss-crossed her arms
about my shoulder blades,
felt them cut into her wrists,
we were at her place.

The dog kept bark-bark-barking,
the fan was roaring, rattling carrying
twenty years of noise,
I asked how her fella was.

"Eh, okay."

"Good okay?"

No response, she asked if I wanted
to watch a Disney movie.
I laughed.
Told her I had to go to a funeral.

"I'm sorry, baby."

"No, biggie. She was old. Expected."

I was sitting on the corner of her bed.
Looking at my depressing hair, and overgrown
scruff in her painted mirror, encrusted with
cheap jewelry, a sea of turquoise and islands of pink.

She put on some deep cuts by The Knife.
That's all The Knife has.
Asked if I liked it.
I said I loved it.

"Good" she grinned as she got up and flipped
the switch.
It didn't darken the room much, given
that it was closing in on 10 a.m.

She walked slowly toward me.
Ran her fingers through her hair.
Her hair was down.
She told me to stop being so down.

"That's all I know," I said with an air of arrogance.

"I'll break that," as she climbed on top of me,
planting her firm buttocks in my lap,
criss-crossed her arms,
about my blades,
told me to touch her thighs.

"I just don't have the time."

"Give me a few minutes, please."

I kissed the intersection of Molly's neck, Molly's ear,
deep exhale,
"I got to go."

"God, okay. Church tomorrow?"

"I doubt it."

"*******, you got ***** by the sun," Molly discovered
as she lifted my stained, white, awkward v-neck off.
She proceeded to kiss down my San Diegan,
sun-painted spine.
"Does it hurt?"

"Nah, do you want more wine, foxy?"

"Sure, just a little bit. I'm feelin' pretty good."

I snagged the bottle from the freezer,
tore the cork out with my teeth,
as I was grabbing her glass off the counter,
I heard her unbutton, unzip, and undress
her loose jeans and her cotton *******,
I heard her throw them to the floor,
as I finished pouring.

I turned,
she was pulling a blanket over
her milky legs, settling into the couch.
As I drew close to her exposed black toenails,
I smiled in pseudo-polite fashion,
"You know these 3-4 a.m. calls gotta stop.
You're going to ******' **** me."

She giggled in a high pitch,
like a perfect 10-year-old,
it made me even more on edge,
"Oh shut up," laugh, laugh, continued,
"you know you love it. We couldn't
do this any other time."

I handed over her glass,
sat in front of her curled toes
on the ridge of the couch.

Her black fingernails skidded
along my weather-beaten skin.
There was no empathy, no exhalation,
no rejuvenation in them.
I had hit a deep low.
Not even the coast could save my soul.

I didn't dance around it,
I skipped ahead to my favorite question,
"How are things with your fella?"
My inflection made the question seem painless
to answer, and maybe it was, but it was hard
to listen.

"Um, well, we broke up on Thursday."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, anywayz, he called me last night,
asking if he could come chit-chat with me,
I said I guess so, and we stayed up like all
night, and we really worked everything out.
It felt so good to clear it up. So we are back
together, to normal, I suppose. What got me
was he told me he loved me and would-"

"Would do anything for you? Or some **** like that?"

"Well, yeah. God, what is your problem? You've
been acting like a **** all night."

I swallowed, with desert difficulty,
grabbed her glass, took a large drink,
she tried to take it out of my hand,
but I pushed her fingers away,
looked straight in her pretty, deceiving eyes,
they were getting antsy, I waited for the alcohol
to hit my head, and once it did,
I cleared my throat, and maintaining
the theme of cool detachment said,
"Molly," exhale, "you are a ******* idiot."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I said you are a ******* idiot."

"You have no roo-"

"Hey, it isn't just you. ******' victim of your age.
Every girl I know is hung up on some *******,
that didn't really do anything special,
just timed dating with some holy moment in your life.
It all comes down to laying your claim at the right time.
When your head is still doped with that 'the one' crap."

"You have no ******* clue what you are talking about!
The first time I kissed him I felt like I would
be kissing only him for the rest of my life."

"You were 18."
I said barely above a whisper.
Molly was straining, tears were welling,
my mouth was spitting out everything,
that within a few hours' wisdom,
I would come to regret.

"Love isn't reserved for a certain age, *******!"

"That may be true, but let me just say this: if he is
'the one', then why are you here?
Your true love didn't come with a special rider
enabling the privilege of sporadic 4 a.m. *****
with people that are so beat down,
you assume them to never give a ****."
Every venomous word, stated calmly, collected,
with light cruelty.

"I....I..." her voice was cracking, spiraling,"I don't know
you just seemed interesting."
She buried her face in my arm,
I took another drink from her glass,
stared straight ahead.
She was muttering muffled things like, "I really do love him"
into my arm and torso.

She spat and moaned for 15 minutes are so.
Volumes rose and fell in cascades
of civil war. The roar dulled to a whimper,
the whimper dulled to silence.

She regained her composure,
she stood up, no nervousness,
she recovered her naked lower body,
she got the button in the loop and
the silence I tore,
"I didn't sign up to be an asterisk,
some ******* footnote in the history
of your love. I wanted to save you."

Molly laughed.
She ******* laughed.

Molly rolled her eyes.

She rested one hand on
hot skin,
grabbed my chin with the other,
and aimed my gaze toward her.

"Don't lie. You aren't allowed to.
We've been friends too long for that.
You needed a muse, a change of pace,
and I hate to say it, but you are
always going to be somebody's footnote
if you don't have any self-respect.
You never let yourself be happy.
You are too caught up in experiencing
all the lows to allow yourself to
feel high. You used to be so much
fun. You used to be so sweet.
Try to find that guy again."

With that,
Molly grabbed her purse,
kissed my forehead,
slid into her shoes,
strolled smooth and soft
out the door and into
the early morning air.
I took another drink.

I woke up
to a nightcalm-shattering
cell phone ringtone.

"Can I come over, baby?"

"What time is it?"

"I don't know 3, 4."

"****," eyes roll, sigh,"yeah I guess so."

"Don't sound too excited," Molly said, Molly laughed.

"Are you going to be long?"

"Nah, I'm already outside."

"Awesome. Okay, let me put on some pants."

I opened the door.
Her hair was up.
Her skin was the color of milk.
Her eyes were grey.
She held keys in the palm of her hand.

"I like your hair," Molly said, Molly laughed.

I said it was getting ridiculous,
she put her hands on my chest,
the tension in the tips of her fingers grew,
exploration, exploration.

"Do you want something to drink?"

"Nah, can we just sit on the couch?"

"Sure."

"How's your fella do-"

She kissed the words, to lock them in.
She started to tear at my shirt,
I stalled her advances,
turned the tables,
I'm done with being prey.

I pulled her up gracelessly,
I fell through her crimson shirt,
through her black bra,
I drank each ounce of her chest,
I grabbed her nape gracelessly,
her eyes briefly frightened,
turned sinister,
turned to validation,
turned to encouragement.

I mapped her stomach,
made quick work of her
cotton shorts,
I bit the waistline of
her lace,
she clung to my coagulated hair,
I laid her to the ground,
we warred atop notebooks and
***** t-shirts,
kissing vigorously in an attempt
to stay far ahead of morals, of reasoning.

I feasted on her hip bone,
she tugged at my shirt,
no,no,no.

I removed the lace with my teeth,
her breath was exciting,
I feasted on the insides of her thighs,
she convulsed,
cursed,
grabbed tight to shirt, to hair, to every piece of furniture near.

Molly's pupils, irises, all grew.
Molly's panting *******, moans all rose.
Howling.
Peaking, breaking, releasing, falling,
sighing,
sighing,
breathing.

I wiped my lips with the back of my arm,
got up,
went to the bathroom,
used some mouthwash,
Molly walked in behind me,
"Things have been going better with him, lately, actually."

"I'm ******* happy for you guys."

"What are you doing here?"

It was the wrong place
for pale, blonde Ms. Molly.
She was into God and other holy things
like Sundays.

2 a.m.

Everybody turned a shade of grey,
meaning nothing to me,
only Molly,
her crystal blue eyes watercolored
by murky bongwater,
at my personal Mother Superior's home.

"What?"

"I said, 'What are you doing here?'"

"Just bored, I guess."

"****. Really?"

"Yeah, this guy-um...****...Chris-no-"

"Brooks" said Brooks.

"Brooks is like a friend of mine. He sits
by me n'stuff."

Somebody put on Neutral Milk Hotel's
"O Comely" and we all sang along.
Innocent, our melody felt like
a jagged kaleidoscope.
I passed the ****, no hit for me, not tonight,
to appreciate Molly's smiles I wanted to be
coherent.

"You know, Josh, it's ******* weird."

"What?"

"That I haven't talked to you in four years,
and then we end up at the same campus,
and we are best friends."

She leaned over and kissed my smokey, worn
cheek. Her lips smooth, fine.
No one around said a word.
Everyone knew she had a man.
But are best friends allowed to
be lovers from time to time?
I ******* hope so.

"cease fire" spouts microphone,
hot blood on tongue,
the wheels whirl,
dramamine for my ex-girlfriends,
dramamine for my future binge--
will this time do?

"listen, listen",
nah-- there's a war on,
we've got **** to do,
dramamine for the foothills of Dakota,
dramamine for the brothels of Orleans,
will I make the sun?

the vultures feast prematurely,
the death masque,
the collegiate, the *******, and the cry--
dramamine for the funeral singer,
dramamine for the swollen shrapnel,
let's just wait for the savior.

I pulled myself through the lecherous carpet,
used the torn, stuffing-spilled, arm of the couch
to hoist myself to the door.

I opened it, only to find Wayne.
"Why didn't you answer your phone, *******?"

I rubbed my red eyes,
cleared my throat, stutter-stepped
with my speech, finally finding my
footing, I asked,
"What are you talking about, man?"

"I called you last night, like 6-or-7 times."

"I had a time of it."

"Yeah, I can see that by the aura of class you are emitting."

"Oh, *******. Why are you so dressed up?"

"That's why I called, you ******* hermit.
Samantha's mom died, on...uh, Wednesday, I think. The funeral is in an hour."

"Gloria's buddy, Sam?"

"Yeah, man."

"****. Okay, well let me at least change clothes, spray on some cologne."

I went to my closet, all the clothes were half-*****,
engaging in an **** on the floor, all the hangers watching, naked,
lonely.

Dug through the mess,
until I uncovered a tie, a white shirt, and some pin-striped pants.
I draped myself in the clothes,
grabbed a pair of sunglasses,
parted my hair,
took a stick of deodorant to my pits, three sprays of cologne,
out the door.

"Where is the funeral?"

"It's off of Sherman Boulevard, not far from Beanie's Coffee."

I got in his passenger seat.
He was listening to Nick Drake's first cut,
which somehow seemed to fit the mood I was in.
"Do you mind if I smoke?"
He didn't.
I had made sure to grab my pack of cigarettes
before we left.
Last night's mistakes were still blaring their siren
in my echo chamber of a head,
so anything with a chemical
function to dull the noise,
was a welcome friend.

The funeral was outside,
behind some strangely styled funeral parlor,
circa 1978.
When we made the corner,
the first people we saw were Gloria's parents.
Her dad, stoic, distant like always,
her mom, crying her eyes out, body already
shaking, and all the sentiment was still to be spewed.

They cast stones from afar with their eyes,
I nodded,
shifted my focus onto anything my gaze could find.
Which ended up being Gloria,
such has always been my luck.
She was in a long black skirt,
and a light jacket.
The wind lifted her black hair
in a sweeping, yet uniform movement.
Her lips were painted a deep maroon.
I sat down a couple rows behind,
stared at the back of her head,
while some puppet in a tie
talked about how Sam's mom
is kicking it in heaven.

I heard very little,
I was pretty hungry,
so I leaned over to Wayne,
"Are there any places around here to eat?"

He just stared at me like I was an absolute idiot.
**** him.
People started to walk toward the casket one row at a time.
It was one of those funerals.
Open caskets have always ****** me off.
It's horribly disrespectful to put the recently deceased
on display so everyone can stare with fascination,
as if it's some sideshow attraction at a carnival.

That thought aside,
I looked at Sam's mom as I walked by,
and you know how people always
say **** like, "Aw, well they did a good job,
it looks just like her," they did a rather ****-poor
job with this one.

Her face was a series of unusual lumps,
scattered like the foothills of northern Arkansas.
Her mascara was everywhere,
her cheeks rosier than Santa's *** cheeks,
and the whole spectacle spiraled me into an awful mood.

As everyone was standing around waiting for the processional,
I asked Wayne, "Where is Sam?"

"Dude, they got in a car wreck. Sam's still in the hospital.
She ain't doing too hot. How did you not know that?
They even said it during the service."

"I was really hungry, man."

I was suckling the barrel
of my grandpa's favorite gun,
when Gloria strolled in,
head held high,
like a 12-story *****.

"What the **** are you doing?"

"Nothin', sweets, I was just wondering about the taste."

Gloria mixed herself a Mt. Vesuvius,
unplugged the telephone,
turned on the tv,
dug her nails into my weary couch,
over and over.

I didn't ask how her day went,
she didn't call me babycakes,
we didn't touch,
I just watched as she changed channels,
sunk further into oblivion,
I traced my kneecap with
grandpa's gun,
it was something to do, I suppose.

"You know you got to get out," she finally said.

I looked like a suicidal *******, baptized in cobwebs,
and every word I threw at every guest teemed parasitic.
I hadn't left the apartment for awhile,
it seemed like every time I did, I would collide with
some enemy, and my bloodlust was subsiding.
I didn't like it to be so awfully one-sided.
"Hey, look at me," she demanded.

Maybe the neurons are crippled,
can't cross the synapse,
or perhaps it's this culture that
listens only to the false priest in its head,
but when no one else around you is living,
it makes the whole gig seem a bit pointless.
"Gloria, sometimes it's better just to die."

The veiny, tan arm of the male nurse, rests too long on Sam's shoulder.
I stand outside of the door's frame until the ******* gives me an
"uh--", loosens his cords with a saliva hack, nods
and brushes past me on his way out.

Sam looks like she found herself on the receiving end
of a riot at the gates of hell.

I take one last suckoff from my fast food straw, making that
obnoxious vacuum noise.
Sam's navy blue lids flutter, open, she connects.
"Oh -- hey, man. How's it goin'?" she asks taken aback.

"Not too bad, lady."

"Why are you dressed so nice?"

"Um, I--uh just got back," exhale, "from your mom's thing."

"Gawd," her lids close tight, nose scrunches.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," the cliché sentiment bounces
off the ancient yellow walls with a awkward thud -- falls to the floor.

Soap opera dialogue from a microscopic, mounted television makes its presence known during a dense break in our conversation.

I sit down in the chair next to her hospital bed.

"What are you staring at?" she spits.

"Just you, you look so small."

"Hospital food tastes how funeral homes smell."

"How long have you been in here?"

"Closing in on two weeks. That's why it took
so long for them to bury Mom.
We were hoping I could come."

"Ahh, gotcha. Why are they keeping you?"

"A few of those internal ***** injuries that
get doctors in a tizzy. Was Gloria there?"

"Yeah. Yeah, her and her family."

"Stuff still weird with you guys?"

"There isn't 'stuff'."

She fidgets, "You know what I miss most about my mom?"

"What's that?"

"Anytime I was feeling like **** she would cradle me,
and kiss my forehead. Made ya feel safe you know?"

I get up, sit on the edge of her bed, wrap one arm cautiously around her.
"Is this okay?"

"Perfect."

I brush her extremely light, blonde hair into curtains around her forehead.
She closes her eyes as I kiss. Her hand grips my wrist tightly.

"All better?"

She grins slowly, "Maybe one more."

I bend down, she elevates before I can reach her brow,
snags the **** hanging about my neck, and crashes her lips
hard into mine.

She moves her lips desperately, ferociously --
clasping them tightly to mine.
My head starts to get light, my hand runs down her side.

"Ahhhem."

We quickly tear our stitched lips free.

Gloria walks out the door.

I was borderline batshit,
I hadn't slept for two nights,
and every time I closed my
eyes, my desperate mind
sent itself into R.E.M.

The hallucinations
were only fun up to a point,
as soon as I saw monkeys in
gas masks, I fixed another ***,
drank three or four cups,
I promised I'd wait up,
and Ms. Gloria had promised to come by last night.

My belly began to roar,
I ate a saltine, one **** packet
left, and then no groceries.
I opened the freezer,
a couple trays of ice,
half a fifth of *****,
"Ah, hell," and ****** off
the remainder in three or four hits.

I turned on the tv,
I forgot their was a war going on.
It didn't take long for my mind to bite.
I took a front row seat for the
viewing of my ego's defeat.
I was holding up well,
using the gunshots as a
backing symphony to
some poetry I was clumsily
penning.
It was something about
texting girls and semi-trucks,
but I lost the ******* notepad
I was writing it on,
I stood up to go take a ****,
and my head fell to the soles,
back met carpet quickly,
monkeys and gas masks,
I heard my phone ring,
I rolled on my side,
in an attempt to crawl to it,
then woke up 6-hours later,
to someone pounding the ****
out of my door.

I shoud've told the bartender to tie me to the last working pay phone.
But I didn't. I let her introduce herself. Sadie, she said, like The Beatle's song.

I'm hard to forget, so I asked, What's your motto?

She breathed in reverse. She looked at the door. She was past mottos.

It was Josh, right?

Yeah.

Let me tell you something. I'm the bad, **** ***** that's gonna wreck your health.

And she did.

Every weekend for 105 weekends. I opened her up like a paycheck.
I spent her on a big brass bed.
I spent her on glass tile.
I spent her on the kitchen island.
The Japanese table.
The water lily pond.

Her brother Frank or Gary or Marvin---some American classic---kept us
horizontal with white whiskey from his personal still.
Personal still.
And there is a house in New Orleans,
but there's another one in Colorado Springs,
one you should be wary of.

I shoud've told the bartender to tie me to the last working pay phone.
But I didn't. I let him tell me about his dream. My name is Jack, he said, as in Jumpin' Jack Flash.

Like the Rolling Stones' song?
Like the Stones' song, man.

You were in it.

Four white girls shared one mic. Karaoke night.

You were in my dream. Are you listening to me? I'm gonna say it anyways.
I only had one eye, but I could see you. Seen you plain as day.
You were scared of me. As you should be. We were on the coast.
No, I don't know which one. I saw that thought on your forehead.
It was a dream. Anyway, you were holding a pen. A giant pen.
And I asked for your name.

I lifted my drink from the makeshift napkin coaster. Pulled a pen out of my coat pocket.
Straightened out the napkin. I scribbled Nobody. Handed it to him. And aimed myself toward the interstate.

I shoud've told the bartender to tie me to the last working pay phone.
But I didn't. She had one helluva an afro. Her name was Katrina, not like any song, like the hurricane.

My skin tastes a little like coffee, Katrina said.

I like coffee.

You wouldn't like me.

Probably not. But I've been lost in this bar forever. I could change my mind.

No, sweetie. Forever ain't that long. Just ask my ex-husband.

Katrina paid for her drink. Asked me if I'd like the change.

Yeah, I'll take it.

I called my buddy Chris back in Oklahoma, but he didn't answer.
I called my buddy Ben back in Oklahoma, but he didn't answer.
Sam. Sarah. Brooks. Nothing. Silence.

Barkeep (I always wanted to say it), I don't think your phone is working.

It works. You gotta remember kid. You're on Rocky time.
There's an hour, every night,
where you're the only person you know that's awake.

Mom shot Jake's cat
with the screen door open,
with dirtied snow covering the
gravel drive. And Jake, bless
his little soul, watched from
the door frame as Dad took
over, snagging the bloodied
mess by the tail and dumping
it in the waiting grave. Mom
told Jake that's the way it is
as she opened the .410's ejection
port and deposited the shell into
her hand. She gave it to him.
A memento. Jake didn't know this
word at the time but years later,
four to be exact, he'd look up
memento for a spelling test,
and think of Dad piling loose dirt,
tiny sticks, and snow on the cat
while he, Jake, stared at the
discharged shotgun shell,
still warm in his hand.

kneeling before a cardboard cut-out
     of the son of god on a cardboard throne--
I lower my head, lace my fingers, and ask
     can I be ***** and holy?
     can I be thirsty for the milk and hungry for the steak?
     can I rewrite and walk off the dock?
     can I smudge mascara and watercolor her form?
     can I point the finger and hold the smoking gun?
     can I hustle and innocently dream?
     can I die and seem more than I mean?

My baby's got the weight of the world
carved into her brow and you can see
it for yourself; she cuts her own bangs.

She loves me tall, she loves me thin, she
loves me in what she calls an "Ethiopian way";
you can see it for yourself in the dark corners of
the internet.

She holds the Guinness-certified record for the
highest use of the hashtag "#vegan." I believe
her when she says cheese is the unitary measure
of loneliness. I'm sure you do too.

She used to substitute teach for Cameron Christian.
She'd take selfies with autistic children and some
called her profane and some called her dangerous
but I thought her posts about the effects of vaccinations
made her seem so in touch with the world, so pure in spirit.

And on those slow nights when we're in bed
with the incense hanging above us, between
her considerations of transitioning into a man
and her considerations of starting an alpaca rescue,
I think about how winning the lottery would be
a disappointment.

After murderous fall of moon, after starving cat's croon,
my body remains.

After getaway car turns to rust, after skyscraper scatters as dust,
my body remains.

After milk carton goes missing, after women disposed in kissing,
my body remains.

After the cackling retreat, after the burying buzz of her words on repeat,
my body remains.

After greeting card ages yellow, after whiskey tastes mellow,
my body remains.

After white suburb tastes of ****, after inner-city tastes black death,
my body remains.

After fifth or sixth televised war, after commercial break bore,
my body remains.

After drunken desperation, after belated bedroom exasperation,
my body remains.

After propaganda pill-popping, after church pew splinter sopping,
my body remains.

After farm fields on fire, after ***** clothes hung on wire,
my body remains.

After open casket sorrow, after sympathy borrow,
my body remains.

After winter of extreme tire, after binge and pyre,
my body remains.

After tearing nostalgic shoreline, after parking fine,
my body remains.

After dumbfound pride, after proving my hide,
my body remains--

awaiting a whitewash of hot rain,
awaiting a ***** cradle free of pain,
awaiting a salty crest daydream,
awaiting a snip from the seams and--

sweet release.

Boldly, bold balding,
going mad at the buzz of cynic critic--
busting friendships like comic watermelons
atop bloodstained ceramics,
the vultures remain--
always do;
I can see it all boldly while balding, sipping
tomato juice without gin due the doctor's call--
always do;
I can see it all boldly while scraping dirt under nails,
scattering my words at a heel'd walk-in and siren's call.

Boldly, bold balding,
flipping off motorist and through magazine pages--
repairing family ties with thank you notes, faux kind eyes,
never hurt to try,
for the vultures remain -- they won't give their name--
never do;
I can see it all boldly while balding, they ask me
to give two ***** -- when did I give one?
Never do;
I can see it all mostly and smearing, watercoloring
through the floorboards up to the ceiling;
the telephone sings, I answer and receive,
"stay the hell away from me",
and I will.

I will.

I really, really will.

Anna's got unsavory passion for heavy brows and bent lips.
She used to tell me, "Baby, you're so strong."
From the top of the spiral stairs, she'd sing songs.
I never felt comfortable, but I'd hum along.
The beer got cheap.
My sorrows got expensive.
The first of December, the blackbird, the rent check,
and chicken scrawl sent her into the snow.
I watched through gap'd fence.
I watched through portal
while Anna danced barefooted with a politician
who looked like Dylan Thomas, but spoke like
Don Juan.
What a wicked woman.
What a ******* cacophony.
What an icy wind.
What a fever dream.

I've been watching the ants.
It's August and I sleep in the afternoons.
I'm single. I haven't showered in two days.
The smoke from the incense drifts.
I **** it down like a good myth.
And the ants are there, on my desk,
scurrying back to their homes
with a few bread crumbs in tow.
I talk to myself after lunch.
"Let me show you to your bed."
And I bury my head in the comforter
and the ants are feasting
and outside there's a pandemic
going on
and I read about a man with
a one-point-five million-dollar hospital bill
and I heard they've been sending
direct deposits to the dead
and something crawls along my leg
and how did nag champa become
the default incense
and I'm single and my heart is
curdled and my mom calls
to ask if I've found anyone to make it whole
but I tell her I better grab a
few winks--it is the late afternoon--
but before I go, how about an update?
My dad fought cancer last
winter and we didn't really
talk about it
and I kept thinking of the
word leisure
and everything got empty
and a little bit terrible
and a leisure suit is nothing, nothing
to be proud of,
and they gave my dad a numbered
chip and they let him ring a bell
and he said a few words
and I wanted to be there,
really there, you know?
But I knew it'd just be
a moment until the sun
got stranded on its way
to set, and I'd see my shadow
and burrow into this bed
with a nag champa halo
and a few mumbled words
to commemorate day 153 of quarantine.

When they started inching their way forward,
that row of men in deep blue, riot shields ready,
batons ready, I couldn't help but love them.
I was never narcissistic, at least not enough
to think I'd see the end of the world. But there
I was, corner of Bedlam and Squalor. Corinthian
columns eroded. Bars on the windows, but
I can assure you they didn't barricade the door.
The chant that carried us downtown, grew
heavy, dragged to a dirge. My heartbeat was my
brother's next to me. My song was my sister's
next to me. And the riot shields approached,
and I could appreciate how well they held a line.
There's a swell of panic from behind. One, two,
three children screamed. The rubber bullet, what
a marvelous concept. Tear gas, effective.
And the blurry men with blurry shields and blurry
batons broke from their line and rushed.
Love can be heavy.
I dominate.
I submit.
A baton crushed against my jaw and I found myself
on my back, looking up.
The chant was a dirge was a scream was a ringing
in my ears.
And I found myself on my back, looking up.
A news helicopter steadied in the sky.
The old men watching my blood run live were
my fathers.
The old women watching my blood run live were
glad not to be my mothers.
I know we disagree, I said, as they kicked my ribs.
I think we should disagree.

she shrieks when she speaks--
she hooks me up,
transfusion--
black venom for my veins,
madness in place of melody,
or even respectable melancholy,
the guitar crawls,
the same notes beating it to death,
she shrieks when she speaks--
the sounds intertwine,
birthing a million-pound, ******* headache--
the runaway claustrophobia blues hit hard--
I unbutton my wrinkled shirt, throw it
against the couch,
Rachel asks me not to leave without her--
but when the madness bites hard,
she drags her feet.

I leave Rachel and the shards of my soul
somewhere between the dogpiss rug
and the whitewashed door--
enter the night,
soulless,
my ape body half-alive--
thirsty to die,
the wind eats my exposed skin,
my arms pump locomotion,
hop curb, clear cracks, gaps,
faster. faster. faster.
I scream,
echoes rattle the complex,
a child watches on a distant doorstep--
get ready kid, the next dose:
yours--

there is sweat sliding down the backs of my legs.
there is sweat residing on her sleepy self as well.
the blanket is tangled in knots,
my head is anxious and irritated,
her breath is slow and rhythmic.


the night bats her eyes,
laughs with security at the sight of my sleeplessness.
the night bats her eyes,
as i roll mine and reposition my legs.


lauren woke.
she woke in wonder.
lauren woke.
all perfect, skin all white.


i offered to sleep on the floor to cool our bodies.
she clung to me like a child.
i offered to sleep on the floor to cool our bodies.
she said, "please don't leave me."


a monster and a little girl curled up tight.
i said "goodnight".
a monster and a little girl curled up tight.
until the dark lost to light.

Nobody ever found a dead seagull.
They plan their final flight.

Nobody ever felt comfortable waiting in line.
They're too far away from the table wine.

Nobody ever got you, Rachel.
They can't chip through your glassy eyes.

Nobody ever got rid of a lie.
Their deceit  simmers into a wish.

Nobody ever married me.
They leave me for Jesus Christ and civil wars.

Nobody ever heard a juke joint singer hit a perfect note.
They applaud for black culture.

Nobody ever found a dead seagull.
Their feathers disintegrate under the ocean's weight.

Nobody ever felt comfortable at a wedding.
They sit curious about the contents under the wedding dress.

Nobody ever got you, Rachel.
They try to pull you down from your high heels.

Nobody ever got rid of their parents.
They settle for calling long distance.

Nobody ever married me.
They only nod at my longwinded history.

Nobody ever heard a fine-combed politician stutter.
They picket sign and roll their eyes.

Nobody ever found a dead seagull.
They control the waves with ghostly wings.

Nobody ever felt comfortable holding a newborn.
They look at porcelain skin like a loaded gun.

Nobody ever got you, Rachel.
They can't afford your grace.

Nobody ever got rid of a former lover.
They avert their eyes as they stroll by.

Nobody ever married me.
They complain about their fiancees.

Nobody ever heard a mother say, "Everything won't be alright."
They find out when the rent comes due.

Nobody ever found a dead seagull,
and they will never find me and you.

He spat acid,
left you defaced,
******,
misplaced.

I sold lovelessness
to myself, left sweethearts
in sorrow,
in madness,
in a fury to find good arms.

And here we are,
your cold, detached facade
starting to melt,
and I lap it up,
hoping you never
find it again.

You wrap your arms around mine,
as we cross seas of parking lots
in the middle of the night,
and I don't know where the hell
we're going, but it feels so fine.

Your laugh
is the song of angels,
your touch is soothing,
and all your mistakes,
and all the exs,
and all the gods,
led me to you,
whether we bloom and burst,
wilt,
or ride the wind forever,
I'm just thankful to have found you.

"Purity vital."
I laughed and then spoke,
"****** from the start."

You clawed your way past death
and clipped your fingernails in
that living room of overwhelming beige.
There were two couches that intersected
perpendicularly at the arms,
one for you, one for me.
With the sunlight scattering
through the blinds, we talked
less to each other and more to
the television. In an effort
to get enough sleep before work,
we'd retire to the bedroom.
Our legs would intertwine. Licorice vines.
I'd pleasure myself. You'd pleasure
yourself. I'd sneak your collar bone
a kiss and bury my sweating forehead
in the crook of your neck. Am I soft
enough for you? you'd say.
Time moved in such a labored way,
as each stained the other in an attempt
to stake a claim.
Stay awhile, I'd respond.
If you don't mind, stay awake a little longer.