I am in love
in my ****** little cobweb room
I lay in bed
look at the ceiling
and think of you.

prefaced by the only glimpse of glamour that I could ever give.

you found me walking downtown streets alone.
I found myself wishing I hadn't gone down that road.

we can hold our guilt above our heads just until the dawn begins to break.
we can hold our guilt above our heads until the spell is broken.

and now my  eyes won't focus.
and now I'm losing my appetite.

you've seen me walking down the empty aisles, 
you've caught me wishing I could sweep the day into the night.

just offhand.
and I have a couple ways to spend the hour that would be far more useful than this.
sleep isn't coming, but in a few weekends,
I'm coming home, and coming to visit.
it takes an occasion to write with conviction,
but I can convince myself occasionally.

just offhand. 
and this is the verse you get because the first half is mine alone. 
and the second part is all you need to know.
you'll be okay.
it's been a long time since I've been away,
and I lost interest.  
I'm sorry for misunderstanding. 
I'm sorry that I fell in love.
just telling you now,  that I'm done. 
I have been for awhile. 
that doesn't mean that I don't
miss your smile. 
I just don't need it everyday. 

2/12/13

the smell of gasoline was making its way,
through my childhood home,
from the oven to the hallway,
to my bedroom, coming to stain my lungs.

somebody is going to wake up.
somebody is going to regret this.

my hair is still pink and blonde,
but the roots are coming in.
the paychecks getting smaller,
my lungs are getting darker,  
and so are my sins.

finally we found ourselves a drinking spot.
four of us,  two and two,
him and he, me and you.
packing bowls, crushing beer cans,
lighting up the dark.

I never asked myself for this
and I never accepted it.

but I found you by your voices.
by the smell that lingers
underneath our lamp post,
by the feeling that pulls me out of the dark,
and into the last summer of my life.

It's only getting worse.
I'm only getting worse.

my eyes are;
aching, burning, cried out.
my lungs are;
deadweight, exhausted, ****** up.
my body has;
given up, had enough.

and it's not even noon yet.

10/11/12

the sun has died,  and yet the planets still orbit.
the fish swim in a char black ocean,  dead current.
the bull charges blindly into the ruins of the arena.

if god looks down,
then he's tired of my being cared for.
he sent a truck and a tumor to get me to care more.
and having failed at that,
he saw fit to pull my heart out.

the flaw in god is that,
he pulls too ******* the puppet strings.

you can bring a camel to water,
but you can never make it drink.

he can send two plagues to reform me,
and in the end I still think.

this is clear punishment for living life without god.
this is the reformation of nothing, and nobody.
this is the admission that I'll happily keep rotting.

it never rained, but it poured.

poured out some alcohol into my cup,
it wasn't red, wasn't that cliche.

I'm taking a vacation from every single bad thought I've ever had about myself.

I'm taking the day to drink and act the way I know I can when I don't think anybody is watching.

so here,
here you go.

here are the raindrops,
that fell on the car while we finished off the last of the thirty pack.

it's been days and it's been a year.

here is the last of the doubts I used to hold so close.

they have left me, and I have found myself.

the snow sticks to the one last pair of jeans you own,
stayed up to watch the sun come up again.

green tea isn't going to save you from the day's advances,
the hours pass like soldiers marching on in sickening waves.
every minute ticking off and disposing another wasted emotion,
I wore my sleeves down to drown me for the first time this year.

and the coffee is to blame,
for the sweat that gathers on the small of my back
sitting here and waiting just a little while longer.

and looking at my smile,
do you see how bad I am at faking it?
we had better make the coffee stronger.

4/1/13

the characters come rhythmic and steady,
left to right I start my morning.
key after key after key after key,
why am I still searching for you?

are you awake?   are you well?
if I go back, will you be able to tell?

tell me that you've missed me,
that you thought you saw me again,
and after all of this time and distance,
you still could call me a friend.

there is nothing you've left behind this morning,
for me to pick up and pick apart,
four tabs into a three hour shift,
and this is what it's come to.

are you awake?   are you well?
I haven't come back, but I have a story to tell.

3/5/13

I lied to you.
I said "who knows what the future holds."
before I walked out and had my cigarette.

I know.

I know I won't be coming back anymore.

I know I looked into your eyes, and didn't tremble.

I'm satisfied.
I want no more of these tense confessions
and temporary forgiveness.

let's bury the hatchet.
let's never have to talk again.

because I really didn't like it.

coffee, college, cigarettes,
there's no place here to hold regrets,
but they occasionally manage to slip in for awhile.
it's nothing I can't drink away,
now that I know how badly I want to do just that.

packed away and labeled in little boxes,
dust is gathering on the picture frame,
that you gave to me after graduation.
how could we have known how little time we had?

and I'm sorry,
                          I'm sorry.

I'm not coming back for the past
it will **** me,  break me,  own me,

and I'm sorry,
                          I'm sorry.

I have no room for weaknesses now,
the spaces are reserved,  my heart is closed.
I turned to sand, and ash,  I slipped away.
where were you to save me?

I'm not going to remember you in four years,
so I suppose it's just as well.

I'm not concerned with your soul,
or your essence, your truth.
**** it, it's nothing to me.
I'm molding you into a still life,
an exhibit, a portrait.
you will not age.
you will never die.
you never left or grew angry.

I'd like to see inside them all,
every passing stranger or fool,
but your shell is beautiful to me,
it's such a shame I cracked it,
and saw the slimy innards,
your grey little slug heart,
that was too slow in it's beating.

truth be told,
your truth is such a turn-off,
so I'll use your ambiguity,
to a paint a pretty picture of you,
where you will live forever,
and I never lose.

2-1-13

2/10/13

you don't have to ask me anymore,
how I'm feeling or what I'm thinking.
it doesn't matter to me
if it matters to you. 
but I wonder if you dream of me,
or mistake me for that girl 
you saw walking down the street
if you remember as vividly as I did 
all the times we used to share.
all the words exchanged, 
my way of merely bordering sane.
I wouldn't expect you to. 

today you were brought up
from across the table. 
and my gut didn't ache
and I simply said,
"I'd rather not discuss it"
and I kept your privacy, 
I didn't expect to, but I did.
it's neither my buisness nor his.
nobody ever seems to know
all that has happened between us.
I suppose it's a blessing. 
so I went out for a cigarette,
and thought about absolutely nothing.

I can smell the sweat that clings to my cotton death.
they have already left for home.

shovel on another layer of debt and debris on top of my swollen body.
the coffee kept me alive to dig out of my grave, and here I am.
 
I can smell the air that ran through our lungs when we were children.

an hour behind,
and the funeral service isn't ending,
pick up the black masks,
as we march out of here in tens.
this body is not dead.
this body is not dead.

we watched the sunset reflected in the marble of the tombstones,
let's dig him up,  let's get him clean
he walks among the living again

and I left my tears at the gate of the cemetery, these years climb off my back like weights we never knew we carried for so long.

through years and windowpanes that gather dust, mattresses given up for caskets, intravenous memories that leaked onto the floor

I smell the sweat that clings to my cotton death.
I am going to take it home.

today I went and bought a 6 pack
we had a blizzard rolling in so I
drove off and decided,
"my first legal buy", and some noodles.

and I looked at just about every 6 pack
the packaging, the price, the abv.
you were such a beer snob
and yet I loved you for it.

maybe I would've found any excuse to love you.
maybe that's what love really is.

I don't remember much of that month,
anymore.
but on your wall I can see
all of the things I bought and drank
when I felt loved and so much better off.

and for whatever reason,
the black sheep lager, I remember.
I wasn't with you, but I was proud of you
for it,
for picking it out.

maybe I would've found any excuse to like it.
maybe that's what love really is.

but anyways,
I kept thinking, which is never good,
that the beer was awesome
that black sheep was the height of summer
that black sheep brought me close to you.

each and every time I saw it on your wall
I thought
this isn't over
it happened
it's real.

well it was,
and it wasn't.

maybe that's what love really is.

but the beer
the black sheep
it doesn't taste at all
like I remembered it did.

like all your favorite beers, it is bitter.
like all unrequited, half-forgotten loves,
it is bitter.

for Brendan,
because you asked me to,
I wrote a love poem for the machinery.
an ode to the efficiency,
of well scheduled maintenance.

they only hummed in response,
but I imagined it was in appreciation
so I continued,

I wrote sonnets concerning,
proper wiring configurations,
and stand alone power grids. 
things that seemed important,
to things that could never feel.

they only hummed in response, 
but I imagined it was in appreciation
so I continued,

I looked them over, and over again.
neat little rows of grey metal boxes
computers from the days of old.

I wanted to tell them about Sherman Alexie.
I wanted to tell them about Flannery O'Connor.
I wanted to tell them about Ray Bradbury.
Instead I cried, & tried to cut the building's power.

they only hummed in response.

everything was looking up
and I never knew that everything was about to go down.

the sliver of light between the blinds reached into my heart and burned an image.

sweat and love and smoke and *****
all smelled the same for a summer. 

my heart stopped keeping time because this was never going to slow down or end.

it wasn't even summer yet.
but I remember that smell.

I remember the feeling of waking up in the morning,
flip flops and long skirts.
cigarettes and heart bursts.

I thought I let it slip away.
but it's right here.
I wrote it in stone for you.
but it's more for me.

when I am dead
you will read all my poems
and hate me
only a little bit less
than I hated myself.

there are late nights
and early mornings
when I can taste the toxic chemicals
that lace my cigarettes
and this is one of them.

and if you ever come across these words
I hope you can forget
the voice that could never speak them aloud.

[sleep never comes anymore,
  and I am afraid that I'm losing my mind.]

good, you're starting to get disgusted
and the double life only takes away
from the beauty of the lie.
I think tonight we are dissolving.

I wouldn't want your innocence
I only wanted to share your pain
but where is it anymore?
with nothing left to comfort
I'm filling voids in vain.

who was supposed to end up bitter here?  
because I swear it wasn't me.

take me home
tuck me in bed
promise me
that you'll stick around
until I wake up

I want to hold all the parts of you,
that I never knew existed.
and keep them close to my heart.

I want to see New York City
the way you grew up in it,
the part of you that still lives there.

I want you to take me to Brooklyn,
and I want to see you smile at me,
the way you used to smile.

the wind is taking more drags off my cigarette than I am. that's buffalo;
wind&concrete;&cold.;
I won't let you crawl into the gutters,
and die in the snow.
in the alleys of these long lost streets,
we keep trying to revive.

and I ask myself
if you'd let me fall asleep out in the cold,
six shots down & I don't want to know.
I'm still walking on my own,
against the cold, and keeping warm.

I'm taking good care of myself,
now that I know you won't do it for me.

gimme that elmwood walk where we don't acknowledge each other;
my lips feel on fire and I
count the steps
for every sidewalk square;
1,2
3,4.

"I'm not smart enough"
just another one of the things you said.

and I can't help but think of how wrong you are.

perhaps you might've said "I'm emotionless"
and I could've believed it.

but "I'm not smart enough" , that's just untrue.

"not smart enough"

that's me, I suppose.
because I can't make my paychecks last the week,
or keep up on my homework.

I have only the slightest idea,
of what's going on in politics,
although I would be quite interested to find out.

I don't know how to build a computer, like you do,
I don't know of all the indie bands you listen to.

I've had ideas and dreams just as big as you ever did.
we just never had talked about it,
and if we did, you never took me seriously.

so don't give me that tired line "I'm not smart enough."
it's insulting to me, because I feel like I'm falling behind.

I deleted your number for the last time
on the sand at Barceloneta beach.
there is something in the word
Catalunya
that makes me want to wear colors
and forget you.

I can’t remember what room I was in
15 years old
involuntary 24 hour hold
in the elmwood village

now I look over my yard
past the liquor store
to the the abandoned glass faces
of your darkened rooms

wonder what I would tell her
wonder what she would see, looking out

I don’t remember the view
don’t remember the way these white lines
must’ve looked fresh
red, raw, and new

but I imagine
her looking out at me

while I smoke a cigarette
while onyx tosses a stick
while walking hodge in twilight hours
while I write these words

what is it I would tell her
what could ten years offer her
to console
to comfort

all I see are black abandoned faces
in groups of three
empty rooms

ghosts of girls long dead
or recovered.

I used to say your name like a prayer
over and over in my head
sitting curbside next to a sewer drain
dropping cigarette butts into the abyss as an offering.

it’s a type of madness that I revisit
from time to time.

different names, different prayers.
cigarette butts and sewer drains.

cheap old seneca reds
half an hour before noon, above freezing.
sun is shining on campus.

this is my little doorstep of paradise
come sit down if you like,
and we can talk about it.

going to meet the boy who has no name.
so we can smoke our cigarettes together.

he fills the empty, with our little talks.
leaning up against the no smoking sign.

it scares me, the way that I think of him,
like clockwork. meet by the sign,
monday wednesday friday afternoons,
and I'm starting to watch the time.

he's starting to fill up the empty spaces,
that he doesn't even know exist.

I still haven't asked his name.

I'm burning up
because I had this strange dream
I fell through the cellophane
to a way to get spiritual.
and woke up in my very own bed.

only two hours early for work.

I coughed up the equivalent
of what my lungs must feel like,
every **** day,
especially these days.

I smoked until I knew I was only making it worse
I'm hearing in different shades of pain
from my right ear canal
whenever I swallow.

if I'm going to die from a cold
can't we just please get it over with?

they will say "no",
     when they should say "yes."
there's been a mistake,  
there's been a manufacturing error.
they made me an empty vessel,
and they sent me down the line.

and it's making me so tired.
I can't spend all my time in search of genuine,
there's none of that left.

not now, not anymore, and maybe not ever at all.
and it hurts me.

so tonight like any other night,
or like no other night at all,
I never thought what I might've lost
when I stopped and gained composure.

just as well.
because now I know it's gone.

that burning behind my eyes
and the sound of your laugh
that just rubs me the wrong way
I don't need to tell you anymore
I don't want to see your face

honey, you can slam the door any way you want, 
as long as you turn the lights off behind you,
and keep quiet.
we just have to get through this

so I send the smell of tobacco smoke across the room as an offensive weapon, you retaliate in kind. 
 
our alarms go off in the morning, and we both try to out sleep each other,  but I have work, I have cigarette cravings, I have nightmares.

I have three weeks until I am rid of you.

Dearest Carol,
the weather's been cold.
The snow falls from the sky,
and flies up my nose.

Dearest Carol,
the liquor was cheap,
and the beer came free.
Now I know Mr. Winter,
and Mr. Winter  knows me.

Dearest Carol,
I'm coughing again.
I'll see you next Sunday,
if I don't turn up dead.

late at night
when the dextromethorphan
turns on me
I can't get your name out of my head

today I watched the movie
and Nina was here;
I think that
if you love her
I could understand
because she at least
deserves you.

and the movie said that
high school love
can never last
past college
or at least
that's what they
wanted us to think.

but I have met her.
and I like her.
I would rather you love her
than me or deb or whoever
because she understands you.
she loves you, still
she has always loved you.

I wouldn't have ever understood Brooklyn.
in 2009; I would not have
understood you at all.
no more than you could've understood me,
the way I was back then.

I met you at just the right time,
in the right way.
when we were both ready.
when we could both be friends,
and easily.
I am so grateful for it.

no, truth be told.
I like her.
I like the idea of what you both used to mean to each other.
I like how you cleaned you room for her.
I like that you still can love.

I like that she smiles and laughs
and leans right into you
because she feels safe.
she is a part of who you are:
and I love her for it.

the thought of her
sleeping in your bed
costs me absolutely nothing;
I won't lose any sleep
knowing somebody
appreciates you
they way they should.

I'm coming right back to the curves of your smile.

and now I'm trying to decide if I should let you in on this little week of bedridden regret.

or we can carry on, both knowing how we'll end up in that bed together, laughing as we strip.

and I can carry on already knowing my smile will be fake,  as your hand touches my hip.  

keeping your eyes on the same little scars you knew I had. without having to wonder how I got them. 

and as soon I as I can,  I'll make
my impending exit, crawl right out of your bed.  it isn't my place to stay there.  

I don't want to know if you'd miss me

and in the morning I'd take a shower, thinking of just how much you must've had to drink last night,  and how it wouldn't have happened otherwise. 

so how do I know this is going to happen already?

dropping every vile line I needed,
I needed to keep you at a distance,
for a year.

from what little I remember,
I said too much.
from what little I wanted,
I gave up too much.

delaying the inevitable isn't working,
even though I want it to.
vain to the point of forgetting, all the
little lies I tell myself to stay sane.
in the very best way I couldn't do it,
nobody is worth feeling for again.

even you.

doesn't this mean I should give up?
even when I have before?
visiting your living room,
leaving flannels by your bed.
if only I could stick with my denials.
never admitting what's left unsaid.

I've spelled it out.

when I was younger and fresher,
a little less lost,
and could still see straight,
over the wall I built to keep everyone out.

I spelled it out.

I could still see you on the other side.
and thought about letting you in.

doesn't it seem scary to you?
everything I know would change
very few people know this
looking at you from across the room
I imagine I am by your side
never imagining it could ever happen

my eyes are drying out.
time to put them to rest for awhile.
I should've stopped you, but never did.
we can't control ourselves, we can't stop this.

when I am blind,  I will be able to guide you.
I don't need my sight to bring you home.

when your voice gives out, I will still hear you.
loud and clear,  as if you're speaking in my ear.

my eyes are drying out.
at this hour they are so useless.
I should've slept, but I never did.
we can't take back this curse we cast ourselves.

so when you fall,  I will be there to help you up.
no matter how many reincarnations,
or centuries have passed between us,
my soul will wait to take you home.

and when we our blind, our hearts will see for us.
in shades of summer and youth, we will map out the great adventure that lies before us.

and, oh, how it lies.

the lovesick little ******
wears a bandaid on her trigger finger
and bites her split lip
while aiming.

she is trying to go higher
past the tree line
and figure out just where to aim.
she points, & shoots.

I have already told you;
there are sleepless mornings
when I can taste
every poison lacing my cigarette

and I wouldn't mind except
for the way that they sift past
a throat already rubbed sore
from all of the screams kept silent inside.

it may not be somewhere as far or exotic as Ithaca
and it turns out that a new life is never anything different than your life, except now.

the sounds of the city are just as independent as they were for you.
just a little closer to home.
and my ***** window pane is just the same as yours,
the beer cans in my driveway are just as empty and full of memories
a little bit later
but I'm a little bit younger
and still full of potential, I hope.

it doesn't feel like my jealous sophomore soul,
but rather a home.

it's not often now I wonder what could have been.
growing up is somewhat like growing into the notion that you will never have exactly what you are jealous of.
but you can always come close.