Like a boxer

I’m on the ground.

But I’m getting up

to finish it.

I may be fragile,
but your forceful fists that
supposedly
promise my "protection"
are only bruising my
beaten,
battered
heart.
This cage you've constructed to
hold me home
is only making me
thirst for escape,
thirst for fingertips
   with different fingerprints,
and thirst for
a breath of different air.

I may be confused,
but your father-figure
illusions
and
delusions
only form frustration
and forsake the fire
we're trying to ignite.

I'm begging you,
release your grip,
if you want me to stay.
And if you don't,
prepare yourself
to watch from a distance,
as I run away.

you play me like
a 1963 Gibson f-hole guitar, mint condition:

you know exactly where to hold and press and play
moving your fingers with such talent it takes my breath away.

so tune me to your heart’s desire,
because I like it best when you’re pulling the strings

I know it's easy to have me.

But if I ever find my way to your pale hands,
please don't take me.

I'd like to go for a stroll
on some empty, November night.
We could complain about the missing stars,
we could quietly sing old soul songs.

And if we get a hotel room,
I'd like to sleep in my jeans,
you can wear anything
as long as it's something.
I want to feel classy,
valued,
and I want the same for you.

I want to wrap up in sheets,
warm each other by the glow of our smiles,
I want to get my fingertips tangled in your hair,
and we'll stick to forehead kisses and whispers.

If we don't heal,
we'll at least escape,
If we can't be innocent
we can at least fake.

It was the December of '91,
and Larry asked me to come with
him and some ladies he knew
from Cameron Christian to
some **** yogurt shop on
Dead Dog Ave.

Three brunettes and a blonde;
at the time
I didn't care much for brunettes,
but god, god, god,
the blonde
with the crystal grey eyes,
the wrinkled floral print dress,
an optimistic ***,
and shaky feet
every single time
I made the eyes.

Sarah and Jennifer (two of the brunettes)
smelled of Glade-Feces-Blanket-Spray,
the third was far too young
to undress,
and I nearly strangled my beautiful blonde
when she mouthed, "Eliza."

I kept talking up the
fact my dad had just kicked me out.
I told Eliza I had the most magnificent
apartment
a bachelor could buy,
she kept averting her eyes,
shifting subjects like
playing cards,
my hands kept clinching,
clasping,
aching,
"Be right back, purty ladies."
I headed for the bathroom
leaving Larry to ******
Jennifer Glade.

I looked in the mirror,
I remember giving myself
a pep talk,
but I can't for the life of me
remember anything I said.

I remember pulling a dwindling
bottle of Black Label from my jacket.
I had taken it from my ******* dad,
the night he yelled, yelled, yelled,
until I was in some low-income complex
with a bunch of lowlife, ******
fuckups.

I ****** off the remnants.
Combed, recombed my greasy hair,
went back in,
just in time to hear
Jennifer Glade spout her stupid mouth,
"Larry, I told you I have a boyfriend."
"He's a ******* idiot."
She started to whimper,
said something like he was a regular sweetheart.
The regulars are so boring.

Larry stood up,
accused her of leading him on,
the acne cashier asked us to "pipe down",
I directed my stare into his acne-framed
irises.

I walked quietly toward him,
I could feel Larry and the girls
tracing my every feature.
"Just leave him alone,"
said my blonde little sweetie,
I turned back to her briefly.
Her skin looked like milk,
I wondered if it tasted like milk,
I kept my feet on track,
redirected the gaze,
back to my heavy-breathing cashier.

I got eight inches away from his face,
he fumbled some words,
that left a bad taste.
I could see my reflection in his retinas.
I looked clumsy and circular.
My milky, blonde Eliza would
never go for a circular **** like me.
This conclusion
coursed through my veins with
irrational speed.

I shot the acne cashier.
Right in his stupid, acne-framed iris.
The gun had been my grandfather's.
He had killed a black boy in the '30s with it.
Got to love legacies.

The brunettes were screaming.
I think Larry was trying to reason with me,
or maybe he was throwing up-
somebody threw up,
anyways,
I shot the young one first.
She had annoyed me most.

Then Sarah Glade.
Then Jennifer Glade.
Eliza began to run.

I jogged after her,
she frantically searched for a phone,
and my milky blonde
found one.

I stopped at the doorway,
rested my head on the frame,
listened to her cry into the handset,
begging for the police.
I opened my lids,
silently strolled up behind her,
with my left hand
I grabbed her optimistic ***,
with my right hand
I pulled the trigger.
She splattered onto me.
I felt successful.

I walked outside.
A silent,
still Austin night,
not even a dog on the street.
Larry was crying.
I told him to shut up.
They were *******.
Asked him for his lighter.
He opened his car door,
dug in his center console,
buried under 6-feet of cigarettes
was a lighter,
he popped the trunk,
I grabbed the gas can.

I erased Friday's mistakes,
and found Larry had driven off without me.
I walked to my low-income home.
I had a lazy Saturday.
Read an interesting story in the Guardian on Sunday.
By noon on Monday,
they were pointing cameras at me.

the movements
      well-rehearsed,
                the dialogue
                                      forced,
the breath heavier than necessary,
but the sheets were still sweaty, your fingernails still digging,
                       the movements
                   felt alright,
       exhale love,
inhale war.
our eyes sewn shut, as we'd vision trip for some foreign bed,
we'd bite our lips at each new venue, deeper, faster, finishing,
crash at each others' side, look at each other for the first time
                                                            ­                                             since we began
                                                                                                                            the night.

i made me some writer friends,
mistook the mistake,
tore the gate,
ate a ghost,
******* a ******,
slaughtered a village to gain your attention,
when you wouldn't look,
i painted myself black,
when you wouldn't look,
i told you i was a shepherd, you were sheep,
and you were going to get
eaten
by some gelatinous being
with very fine teeth.

all my writer friends,
they're all at my throat.
all my writer friends,
they sink claws, scream in my ears,
shove, shove,
tell me i need to love god above.

i made me some writer friends,
tricked the truth,
bent my back with compliments,
strung my neck with friendly kisses,
wrote all my writer friends a eulogy,
wrote a ****-all note to my mom and dad,
but i didn't buy the right stamp,
smoked a bowl,
baked a cake,
called the goat an *******,
poured a shot for a 15-year-old girl,
tickled the ivories until they stopped laughing at me,
discovered that all red-headed girls bite lips,
thanked danny elfman for scoring my bedroom scene,
continued working on an epic poem that rips ginsberg off.

all my writer friends,
tell me to stop distorting reality,
stop drinking,
stop dominoes of summer girls,
all my writer friends,
they are handing me bibles and pistols,
and i give them a nod,
a blanket,
a cup of coffee,
positive reinforcement,
and set myself on fire every night
to hear myself howl.

A little advice from when I gave a ****.

You never fail,
Nomad,
to be disappointed by your Domino Lovers.

First,
your persian,
the big one,
the first love,
the true love.

Second,
your *******,
the responsibility
the mistake,
the theif.

Third,
Your yoko,
me.
the sweet one,
the **** up.

Last,
your Lioness,
your destroyer,
the final cut,
the Karma.

She delivered the crippling blow.

But no worries,
Nomad.
I'll patch you up,
friend.
I'll match you up,
friend.

I'm not yours,
anymore.
And you're not mine.

Float free,
friend,
cut the strings,
friend,
forget the lovers,
friend.

Stop the Dominoes
from falling
one
after
the
other.