There's a complex on the corner of three streets
Just south of something and north of something else.
One time a girl stood there crying in the rain all alone
Waiting to get picked up by anyone who wouldn't ask where her tears came from.
All she could say was she was sorry.
At night there's this dog that barks for no reason
No matter how loud you are, or how quiet you are. It must just be the flowers.
They look like a 13-year-old girl's experiment with make-up.
And they smell like dust in your nose.
Follow the road north to the pharmacy and the convenience store
Conveniently next to a windowless brothel and an indie movie theater.
Follow it south and you'll get an organic market, loose tea shops, and gelato.
Funny how that happens.
If you stand on this corner you'll see cars lining the street in every direction
Squealing and shaking with each extra body shoved inside to enjoy the beautiful dumpster view.
And maybe a pool that no one uses.
There's a complex on the corner of three streets where Atlas goes to shrug his shoulders.
And complain about how heavy his job is.
Loudly tending to his messed up joints.
Drinking with passers-by and sleeping with women who came by to massage his limbs.
Gently, tenderly, and maybe a bit rough every now and then.
Atlas lives, owns, and runs this whole **** town.
And let me tell you, he's in great shape.

He's a writer for sure
Every ounce of him.
That's why he stopped
Drinking wine,
Except for Wednesdays
Of course.
He has a taste for
Cigarettes and the hard stuff.
The stuff that's going
To make him forget
About all the things
He's going to write about in the morning.
But really,
How could he forget
Every single moment
Of his entire life.
He's not arrogant
But **** the devil if he's humble.
No, he's just used to
Being kicked in the face.
And he's good at it.
So why stop now?
Every morning is a hangover
And every night
Is another reason
To write down everything
Because **** everyone
Who tells him no
He's too **** good at it.
Let's drink to that tonight.

This bakery sounds like couples cooing at each other from opposite ends of the booth
Giggling like no one else sees they're playing footsies under the table
And coffee they've let go cold because no one orders hot, black coffee at five pm in this Arizona heat.
It sounds like cookies taunting the diabetic who really did come in for the salads
And the free wifi, of course.
It sounds disgustingly like the same song I've played on repeat for the past three hours
Contemplating what I want to write about tonight.
But not really contemplating
More like wishing that on the walk to this bakery that's stuck on the corner of a straight road
I'd thrown you to the ground and punched you in the face
For all the wrongs you've done and all the wrongs you're going to do.
But your apathy threw me off, and I kept walking in silence.
Wishing I could have the beach's sands, the mountain's bending rivers,
And that I could run away from here.
This bakery sounds like noise, and sometimes noise is tolerable.
At least noise is better than apathy.

I don't paint.
But tonight, in the crowd.
Amid the drunk beards and the gentle, bobbing women.
With cell-phones seen raised in the air from every angle and every perspective.
While five men in hats danced and sang on a stage.
Light beamed from their faces and the ground shook with every kick of the drum.
My father on one side, my sister on the other.
My body moving left and right.
My hand on my chest and my lungs on fire
My eyes closed and my chin up.
I wore a sweater with a paint stain on the sleeve.

I am not beautiful. Just simple.
Made plainly of laughter and tears.
I wear knit sweaters in the snow
Shorts in the heat
And a dress to church on Sundays.
I have no battle scars
I bear no cross
I am basic and mild.
But you are a hurricane
On the most beautiful beach I've ever seen.

I want to kiss you softly and often.
Every moment of every day for the rest of my life if I could
I'd pull you as close to me as possible.
I'd grab your hands and put them around my waist
And taste your lips over and over again until they're all I remember.
When I'm not with you I want to dream of you holding me
Against your chest, feeling it rise and fall with every nervous breath
That sneaks out of your lungs
Through those beautiful lips of yours.
I want to lose myself to thoughts of you taking me by the hands
And fight loving you with everything I have.
I want to lose
Myself
In the way you kiss me sweetly and hold me tenderly.
In the way you've already kissed me sweetly
And held me gently, softly, warmly, kindly that one night.
I want to hate you. But more than that.
More than your lips, arms, eyes, smile, breath
I want to love you as wonderfully as a girl can love a boy
Beautiful and innocent until no more.

People don't die beautifully for living plainly.
The most gorgeous deaths stem from lives made entirely of chafing and scratching
At the eyes of bystanders and the legs of elites pushing pencils and having babies.
Women do not make history sleeping in the arms of men
That stroke their hair and tell them they're beautiful.
Nor do they change the course of a nation by smiling at those they're told to smile at,
By following rules and setting limits on their intellect and imagination.
Likewise men do not make history kneeling in front of a stone with the word destiny written in repetition
On its surface.
Men do not alter reality by being societal representations of men. Of trees. Of beasts.
Men, and women, who make history,
Who have died beautifully, tragically, desperately,
Have died in incredible circumstances. Have been remembered
For being a thorn in the side or the splinter in the eye of the path laid out by reality
So every breath and every sight was them. Pestering.
Until they could no longer be tolerated.
That's when they were remembered.