did you know i found god at 12?
at least i thought i did.
all i really discovered was *******, like
every other 12 year old.

i wanted you to know that.
i don't know why.

i think i want you to know all of my secrets.
secret number one:
       i'm half drunk.
not actually a secret but the truth.

in a post-apocalyptic world you would be mine,
curled together forever in some oak tree cave
in Connecticut during fall.
i would fall asleep in orange leaves with
your head in my neck.
i could never have that.

come on, Natalie,
there's a heart in there somewhere.
we watched "Moulin Rouge"
and you begged me to sing to you.

now, five years later, i'm sorry.
i know i missed your wedding,
but i just couldn't bring myself to watch
you give yourself to someone else.
you called me during the reception
wanting me to ******* in the church kitchen.
that was the nicest thing you ever did.
now i can hate you.

for all those guys whose girlfriends i took,
however brief.
and for the guys who got the girls after me,
because i'm sure that wasn't pretty.

they were typing papers,
so i'll write them off as not trying hard enough.
i'm probably better than them at a lot of things,
but honestly, that's not important;
it's how you present yourself.
i've got that part down pat.

there are too many to count,
too many names to remember,
it's not worth the trouble.
i'm not sorry anyway.

but i'll bet they are.

and here's what i want from you.

I want you coming to me and running
away as fast as i can.

at the intersection of Denver and Archer,
the purple glow of lights and the steam
billowing from manhole covers
reminds me of you.

the striped sheets I'm in now
once wrapped you up.
while you held yourself up on my chest and stained wood,
my eyes danced over your skin
making the journey new again.
hot coffee at 10 am leaves me running in place--
never getting anywhere.

i loved you in the rain,
by the time the weather cleared,
i had forgotten you.
that's not kind,
but look at my state, darling.
the left winger's and right winger's
want my head.
i'd clip all the same,
but they'd fall all around me.
pity.

i'm at the age where
i think everything i do is so **** creative
and the things i think and say are so insightful.
but they are.
mostly.
on occasion.

sometimes.

"You're looking fit," she said, the words sliding off her tongue.

"Thanks. So are you."

It was a cold walk up to the oak door
and my nose was red from the wind.
Sun Meadow. That was her neighborhood.
A little optimistic for my taste.
Five, maybe six, people I graduated with lived on her street.

"Where are your parents?"

"Cayman Islands. They usually go somewhere tropical
after the holidays. I would've gone, but work... you know."

"Yup. No time for fun."

"You wanna smoke hookah?"

"Sure. What flavor?"

"Don't be silly; house mix, always."

She loved the "house mix."
It was a slightly overbearing concoction
of apple, banana, and melon flavored tobacco.
I ran my hand through my hair to dissolve the snow.
Her mom was an interior decorator, so I was surrounded
by obscure, obnoxious, and expensive trinkets from
God knows where.
I sat on a bar stool and watched her make the bowl.
Her moves had gone from graceful to inept
just as she had gone from goddess to **** in my mind.
She set the hookah on the bar and inhaled.
Then it was my turn.
It went on like that for five minutes or so
as she looked me up and down.
Every once in a while she would lick her lips
or lean forward to expose even just a centimeter more of her *******.

"So who's the new ****?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," she spat.

"My left or my right, depending on how many notes
I've taken that day."

"Ha ha, very funny. How long's that been the case?"

"A week or two. Maybe three," I quip.

"Restless yet?"

"That's all I've ever been."

Ashley was never tactful.
She showed her hand too fast, but she
bet so little it made no difference.
She was also never virginal.
People often romanticize their first time with stories
of secret escapes or innocent awkwardness.
I was never like that and Ashley appreciated the monstrous
control and possessiveness I wrapped around my *****.
I took what I wanted, she told me.
She liked that, I guess.

She knew a couople girls I had been with--
they'd shared their "stories" with her.
Stories of how I'd ripped the innocence from them,
the thrill,
the wall slamming,
screaming,
cursing,
the painful entrance,
strength,
weakness,
and finally
the out-of-breath finish
where I left them feeling like rag dolls.
Or so I'm told.
She liked that.
Craved it, even.

So, I let her have it.

My arrogance takes many forms.
The smirk sliding across my face.
The unabashed eye contact across the table.
I've got weapons and no end in sight.
Peeling away your skin and reaping the fruits of my labor.
I'm always proud to know when I'm right,
except for the times when I wish I was wrong.

I don't even have to open my eyes to know when you're lying.

i was never one for the dramatics.
mostly, i just drank in the corner and watched the stage.
had the uppers and the droppers and the
speakers boomed all night in my ear.
i churned out lines left and right.
saw the virginal girls with filthy minds slip
out of their ******* and onto my lap-- that was all right.
they were good *****, i'll give them that.
i could have done without seeing their faces.
maybe that's cold.
**** it.

No girl in high school broke my heart
except for Alexis.

We weren't involved or anything.
I would run into her occasionally at parties
or in the hallway between classes.
Alexis was "that girl."
Alexis slept with your boyfriend
or girlfriend.
She slept around, sideways,
inside, upside down, and backwards.

Red hair, pearly whites, manicured nails,
she took care of herself.
Mostly because no one else would.

Senior year. Anatomy and Physiology. Mrs. Livingood.
We sat next to each other.
We were partners for every project.
Every day, Alexis would come into class
and I would see the look in her eye.
The same de-sensitized, drained emptiness.
Most girls giggled or gazed at the naked human form--
at least a remark or two.
My new friend seemed tired of skin,
panting,
beds,
the dark.

It wasn't until Spring that I saw an altercation.
Tyler, a senior himself, had been sleeping with Alexis.
At this point, I gave a deaf ear to the rumors,
but at 7:36 a.m. on the third Thursday in March,
I got out of my car to see Alexis being pushed out
of a green truck's passenger door.
She tumbled to the ground in her bra and *******
with scratches on her back and a "*****!"
crashing into her head.

I walked over to her, picked her up,
slammed the door on Tyler's ankle
and carried her to the bathroom.
I went to the band room, got some of my extra clothes
and brought them to her.
My red Adidas shorts hung off of her and my
"Tulsa Soccer Club" shirt had sleeves too long.
She cried into 2nd hour.

It was the most emotion I'd ever seen her show.
I think it was at that point I began to loathe society.
I hated the ****, where the girls looked empty in the eyes.
I hated the "lose-your-virginity-in-high-school-to-your-first-love" stereotype.
I hated my friends, who called her a ****.
I hated myself for not breaking in to her in time.
I hated every boy who climbed in a girl's window, and vice versa.
I hated that I couldn't change their minds.
I hated every person who slept with whoever I was going to end up with.
I hated the people I had slept with.
I hated the drugs.
I hated teenage romance.
I hated my age.

Alexis and I were never in like or love or lust
or whatever the hell.
Still, I took her on a date.
Dinner, coffee, comedy show, and a party.
We held hands-- mostly because I wanted her to know
that innocence again.
I didn't feel her up, I didn't kiss her, I didn't put my hand on her thigh.
I took her home and watched a movie with her family.
I didn't look when she changed clothes.
I hugged her goodbye and that was the end of it.
She told me I gave her the only respect she'd ever gotten.
I told her to say "*******" instead of doing it.
She smiled.

Today she's a single mom.

you ****** him, baby. you are.
that's all right.
i sleep alone but you do the same, even when he's with you.
dissonance carry on with her other lover.
forego "break" when hesitation will do.

we're paralyzed. i'm blindsided.
fear is fault.
he's at the top of his claim as spring wakes.
i'm begging love to bring quake.
struggle knows it's somber call.

then could we sleep late?
i'd love the sight of unclouded
daylight on an unblighted face.
so break latch, show me thirst
under sheet, hand-in-hand, outside bloom, inside burst.

i revel in your rhapsodic gaze.

your clothes are scattered on your floor.
my eyes glaze over at the thoughts that come.

which of these clothes did he take off of her?
did she lift them off for him?

i know he leaves you feeling ******.
you told me on the phone he came inside you.
my teeth grind.
eyes water,
lips tremble,
hands shake.
Mary Beth told me to be strong,
"you always take care of us, but this time lick your own wounds."

i'm too proud to say i feel it--
too proud to say i don't find sleep 'til 3 a.m..
all i think of in bed is you *******
for him.
i take a few hits of everclear,
write some ****** poetry,
and replay your laughter over and over
and over again.

Honey, if I gave a **** about your boyfriend
I would have given it by now.
Although, I will say I have my opinions
formed from a party,
a few conversations,
some comments,
and a whisper or two.
So from what I can tell, your boyfriend
checks his hair in the mirror.
is more worried about beer pong than
          how much you've had to drink.
speaks incorrect French.
whines like a little ***** when he goes
          without a "goodnight."
is safe, boring, beige paint.
boxes you up into the same routine.
is insecure.
would be paired with Napoleon Bonaparte
          in a wrestling duel.
is obsessed with his muscles instead of your laugh.
is making you miss your chance
                             to take a chance.

On a Wednesday night, I think of you.
You’re my grandmother’s type of girl.
Your kindness reminds me of my grandfather
and he would’ve told me to take good care of you.
“Be all for her,” he told me in a dream last night
when I drew myself up sketched out
next to you.

And I know that you’re a good girl.
I swear I do.
You’re in your bed, off your feet,
the cushion is empty next to me.
The ice melts in the malt and I salt
these pity wounds.

Honey, was I the wine when you wanted rye?
Baby, does my tongue lick a changing mind?
You pour from my fingers in a fall,
sky turns black out my window and kids scream.
You consume every corner of my mind,
but I don’t mind.

So be balanced, if that’s what you have to do,
but lean my way.
Thoughts of you comfort me ‘til break of day.

in my shower.
You’re there in the passenger seat.
You’re in two places simultaneously.
Your head’s on my chest,
arms around my neck, fingers laced.
You’re in my headphones when “Cheers Darlin’” hits my ears.
You’re sitting on my lap.
You’re laying on your bed.
You’re climbing in and never leaving my head.
You’re at the top of my list-- the only name.
You run through my veins—
the only drug I want to take.
You’re the love that hurts, the love that saves,
the love that stains my tongue.
You’re the anger, the sweat, the out-of-breath.
You’re the “take your time.”
You’re every good word.
But you haven’t said your mine.

the muck and the mud dried in my hair.
i climbed through the window that had served
as a painful entrance hours before.

the trek to downtown Tulsa was one I knew well.
the journey was nightly for months, and existence was
brief each time.
the car ride was long and bumpy. i pitied the shocks beneath
me as they screamed with each hit.
they never saw them coming.

my friends crowded the cab and the heat
****** salty sweat from my pores. with every pull from the whiskey
bottle, i traded sanity for spirit.
music floated through the heavy, dense air--
Combat Rock or Bowie's deep cuts.
cigarettes burned holes in our chests and
our bodies ached in maddening delight.

i turned the wheel,
my fingertips surreal.
we pulled in, stepped out, and felt the bass race up our legs.
3 minutes in the building and we were all covered in glitter
and shining on the inside.

with the shaft of this city looking so bleak,
i know i couldn’t have fallen anywhere else.
but i don’t know about you.

i know plenty about the music you’re into,
the language you speak, the stairs you creak,
but i don’t know about you.

i see those beautiful eyes of yours
and i see them stare at the smoke billows,
and i see you seeing that I can’t figure you out.

and it gets me off every ******* day.
but i don’t blame you.

Edie strolled into the restaurant, her favorite place
as a child.
The diner was decorated in a 50's theme
and looked like it was a drunken night's
regurgitation of the one in "Pulp Fiction."

She sat down in front of her father,
who had been watching her ever since she pulled up.

"Jesus Christ, Edie. What did those shoes cost you?"

Edie was wearing a pair of pink heels with
Louboutin trademark red soles.

"Enough," Edie spat, with obvious contempt for her father's concern.

The waitress approached,
sat her plump buttocks on the booth
next to Edie's father and took their drink order.
Two coffees, two waters, and an orange juice.

"I want you to meet my new girlfriend, Edie."

"What the **** do you mean by that?"

"Have dinner with us."

"No, thanks."

Edie's father took a deep sigh.

"I know this is about your mother---"

Edie threw a ten on the table, and
strode quickly to the door.
Elvis, Marilyn, and Frank look-a-likes stared
curiously at her full-figure.

Edie sank into her car with tears rolling
down her cheeks.
She drove to a convenience store and purchased
two bottles- Tylenol and Jack.
She threw a couple swigs of each back and raced
towards the Turner Motel, where her next
client waited eagerly with a sweaty forehead and a
chest panting like a diseased dog.

Edie let it fester.

our skin is
in the way.

Edie was caught in the claws of copulation.
She was attractive, with no roots showing
on the top of her scalp.
Great ****, great ***, could hold a conversation.
Everyday, she got into her workhouse of a car,
more home than her dingy apartment, and drove
to her first "appointment."

But on this day, the appointment that loomed ahead of
her had her shower cold and her face white.

She drove past an old movie theatre
and an abstract and title company with
the fanciest sign in town.
It was Edie's favorite.

She glanced out the window.
A regular ******* standing on the sidewalk was chatting
up a woman who looked bored stiff
and there was a young man a few jumps
away who couldn't hold his liquor.

"Pathetic," Edie muttered.

An average run-of-the-mill bar slouched behind
them and there were ridiculous looking people
spilling out the door.
But only those who had survived the night before.

Across the street, a newspaper dispenser ***** and chained
to a light pole stood content as its contents spilled from
it's belly like the guts of a dead gazelle.
Like the guts of it's readers.
Like the guts of a building out an open window.

Edie's ******* were sore and hurt after the
manhandling of last night.
They began with a ***** that got straight to
the point and then they did too.
He had advertised himself as "sweety but meaty"
and Edie discovered later
that his genitals were uncircumsized and below average.

Oh well.
Submission.

She had a headache in the morning and no aspirin.
Her decision was to stop later and get some.
But before then, she had something to take care of.
Something big that needed to be handled.
Something she hoped would be brief.

"Something," she thought, "that's for **** sure."

She pulled into a front spot in her black '98 BMW,
fixed her make-up, then her hair.
Edie closed her eyes, took in a rather large
amount of oxygen,
exhaled and stepped out of the car.
She had a hankering for eggs after all.

my roommates are plotting tonight.
"oil wrestling," says Tookah.
"mud fights," says Darby.
"let's be strippers!"
in unison this time.
they fake enthusiasm well enough. so well i'm not sure if they're kidding.
i put in my headphones and disengage.
it's electric, combined with some pseudo thinking.
but i have to admit, my hypochondria subsides
when i'm overtaken by their banter.

Broken Social Scene is in my head.
smoke between my lips. American Spirits.
coffee on my tongue. tea will come later.
Lauren will get off work soon and i'll feel
complete again.

but until then,  i will sit here and record this ****,
needlessly clean my vinyl,
maybe clean the apartment,
consider buying a new guitar,
immediately dismiss the idea,
fiddle around on the piano,
pick up the fourth and final roommate from work,
wait for my heart to stop beating in my head,
and for her to come home to me.

they were always three sheets to the wind anyway,
the idiots.
together we would shriek and raid ears
as we rolled across the parking lots.
the ice and snow were never cold enough
to turn our skin blue, but
we covered ourselves in it anyway.

then they tried lucid visions but they weren't sincere
enough.
they tried caffeine, mescaline, adrenaline.
they tried to go the whole nine yards
and only got eight.
i spat in their faces, the hipster *****,
as mortality flaunted her **** in front of me.

handicapped and average,
i put a toe out of line and it was returned to me
mangled.
i dredged the barrel and found limes in
the cracks and the wood tasted of hops.
i was a visiter and you all hung from the ceiling,
cradled in my scarves.

i woke up and saw white walls and
the umbrella in the corner was no longer tangible.

at 9, my father took me to confess.
i crossed myself and stepped into
the closet-like space.
"bless me, father, for I have sinned."

at 10, my mother took me to church.
baptist. southern. the pastor spit venom from his pulpit.
they taught me to fear god
and live my life through christ.

at 15, my friend took me to her synagogue.
i sat with her family as her sister
recited text from the torah.
we celebrated her bat mitzvah. held her high on a chair.

at 17, my best friend took me to mosque.
we washed our feet and dressed in tunics
and prayed towards mecca
and recited words from the koran. we were placed behind the men.

the same pattern was played,
over and over again.
swear to whatever god owned
that shrine
that you would give your life for him.
and make no mistake, because by divine reason, it is a him.
and always,
               always,
                     always,
                          get down on your knees.
and pray.

i remember thinking every ******* time
that prostitutes and disciples
seemed awfully alike.        
and then i thought,
"they're probably right about god being male."

look at you, doll,
all straw stiff and still.
you stand there with your hands
on your hips, clutching
them in veneration. they wait to secrete
their venom.
your favorite thing to do was to always shoot
me the "**** me" eyes in a crowded room. you were told
to stay away. you still
asked for it. so, i made you beg.

but before,

she told me we were only cogs
in a clock.
i told her there was more than time,
but i didn't mean it.

i was adamant, demanding flesh.

i was young and stupid.
arrogant.
driving down dirt roads, past the rows of pine trees
my grandfather had planted as
a kid.
i played guitar on the hood of my car and sang
love songs to the moon.
i thought of myself as meaning
while my heathen cousins watched **** and clenched
themselves,
sweat on their necks and dripping
down their backs with no purpose.
mouths hanging open.

but then,

i drove away from her.
i left her naked, yet warm.
my friends told me i needed a sign around my neck
that read "proceed with caution."
reflectors and all so they could find their clothes.
i couldn't disagree. though
she couldn't say she didn't see it coming.
she was a release i needed at the best of worst
moments, nothing more.
i'm sorry for that. but i had warned her
every time.

she lays on the bed
in front of me.
bare skin all over.
i lift my shirt off
at the foot off her bed.

how little faith the night
has in me,
putting money on my exhaustion.

we pull the covers over us, my
face in her neck.
scratch, bite, pull, push.
my hair goes from unkept to untame
like a lion's mane in the dry heat
of the sun.

and like a lion, i feast on her
body.
the curves below and above her hips.
her shoulders,
the nape of her neck.
minutes turn to hours
and her breathing in my ear
reminds me of our pulses.

the most holy moment of my life
remakes itself almost every day
and night
and spills over into the morning
all over itself.

no patience.
but i keep it to a dull roar.

at the last moment, we find
ourselves breathless
and still wanting more.

i walk into my grandparents house.
a one story country house tucked into
the nicest neighborhood in town.
immediately, nicotine grips my nose
and i see a bit of brown seeping from
the walls.
60 years of smoking showing its ugly face.

my younger cousin runs and grabs my legs.
a blue-eyed, blonde-headed 4 year old
who looks like she could be my daughter.
Audrey says hi with her smile and runs
off to play with Max in the dirt.

i sit down with a cup of coffee like a
proper adult.
my family tells me i'm still the spitting image of
my uncle, who was shot in the fourth grade.
a boy brought a gun to school.
it was an accident.

everybody makes small talk.
i don't talk much, which my family has come to
accept.
Thanksgiving hasn't been the same since my
grandmother passed.
nobody tries to pretend anything's different, which
i think is good.

my grandfather stares into the distance and
doesn't talk much either.
everybody tells me we're alike.
i can finally see it.

i drive to Jim Ray's gas station (a family friend)
and buy some batteries for the kid's toys.
the lady, who i assume is related to Jim Ray
stares at me as i cross the store.
i place my purchase on the counter and
like lightning,
she grabs my hand.

"oh my god, you look just like Mark Brown."

she says this with tears in her eyes.
i tell her how we're related and
she says to tell everyone at the house "hello."

"alright, thanks."

i don't go back for a couple of hours.
everybody seems to cry for one reason or another
and one reason is always my resemblance.
i understand plastic surgery.

work is over
for everyone
but me.
i'm left alone
at my desk,
the only light
coming from my computer screen.

it speaks to me:

"what the ****
are you staring at?"

i get up and leave.

night fell asleep waiting
for my departure.
the highway was empty at 5
in the morning
and the sunrise felt personal.

2 cigarettes left in a yellow box,
Ryan Adams, Rocky Votolato,
and John Coltrane filled the car.
my head was light and the coffee
i swallowed complained it was too cold
inside of my insides.

i can never slow down.

my uncle told me my face gets more
defined every time.
my aunt said my jaw looks a bit broken.
my grandmother was silent.

but at least my parents were proud
that i left so early to make that
******* final.

it's over.
the flings.
the ballads.
the effort.
it's all an atomic bomb in my head
and i don't ever take cover.
watching while they pass out black daisies

i leave my body for you.

it was the first day of class.
i had four.
boys and girls introduced themselves to me.
they offer their hands, so i extend mine.
it's awkward, i don't see why people bother.

a flurry of snow fell around mid-day.
i came to work to find that Sara the Secretary had quit.
on Friday to be exact.
apparently it was a big ordeal that involved some bitter words
that came drenched in venom and a ******* or two.

i'm glad i wasn't there.
she talked more than i care to listen.
oh well.
work.
work.
work.
Beth said the moon wasn't bright last night. said it was ****.
Beth goes to bed with the chickens.
but at least she does.
tell me what to do.

i note that i take notice of things that are the same.
people generally notice things that aren't.
isn't that funny?

Wake up  at 2 in the afternoon.
Lauren's gone to work,
Amanda's asleep.
Brew some coffee.
The machine sounds like a tired
elephant being killed after a long chase.

I lace up a pair of new shoes.
My mom's been telling me I need
new shoes.
I didn't really want them.
I probably need them, but still I'm indifferent.
It's not the money
or the irritating salesman,
or the funny look I receive when I
ask for my ridiculously large size,
or even the other customers.

It's the part where I have to
wear them in.
I'd really rather not.

I buy the same brand,
different color.
I think my mom will just be grateful
I did at least that.
The last two pairs of shoes I
had were exactly the same.

Now I have a girlfriend,
a different pair of shoes,
a different apartment,
and longer hair.
I'm incredibly in love and wearing in shoes
doesn't hurt quite so bad anymore.

i see Charles Mingus crying like cool jazz.
i see Lauren's head in my lap.
i see The Stranger spin on the turntable.
i see a broken night.
i see haze high near the ceiling.
i see headphone cords, whose ends hurt my ears.
i see the same chord progressions driving me mad.
i see love fading in a passerby's eyes.
i see chapped lips.
i see my debit card, i run it as credit.
i see the 10 foot tall stack of paperwork on my desk.
i see my know-it-all confidence.
I see my god complex.
I see your god complex, and know mine is greater.
i see ***, smell it, hear it, taste it, feel it, want it.
i see cars stampeding towards me down the hill.
i see neon signs for strip clubs.
i see prophetic signs, i ignore them.
i see my professor's approval.
i see computer screens.
i see my finger reject the call from a former fling.
i see ****** music.
i see sad faces, day after day.
i see my mind disconnected from my body.
i see boys in fraternities.
i see girls in barely anything at all.
i see my roommates and i yell for no reason--- we laugh.
i see society coming to eat me alive.
i see when i trip.
i see when i get up.
i see when i don't.
i see when i let my friends down.
i see when i pick them up.
i see my eyes closed.
i don't see what they want from me.

trace patterns that never
cease to replicate.
I keep you going forever,
pop culture ******.
but my fickle mind is ever-changing.
talk of overdose, divorce,
ego, graffiti.
I paint all across your face
my own art.
I make you taste the love
and hate and love and
wait
tell me what to do to rebel.
do I cut myself and lap up the metal red
in carnal hunger?
frenzy me in music and
******* misconduct policies.
no, pop culture ******.
no, no, no, no, no!
help me out, man
plead again!
pick me up, man
dyfunctional family ain't near enough
petrol to sustain this fire or keep a smile
and I got no match to strike in the first place.

now my
destination unknown
the
first stop suicide
the priest asks me to produce my rosary.
I can't.
he says,
"fame or martyrdom then? we don't have enough to
give you both, kid."
I chose ambiguity as the way to go,
no street
no job
skipped the name.
pop culture ****** wants out of the puzzle and
into the game.
pop culture ****** wants out of the computer and
into the machine.
we tell them life is pretty.
abattoir for slaughterhouse so
no one asks questions.

sweat drips down my face,
the floor swims beneath me
and smoke ribbons out of my mouth and nose.
mid-summer in an Arabic bar
with some ******* touching the dancer all over
and saying "*******" over and over again.

he stares at her hips.

the mirror is on one side of me,
and one half of a pair of speakers is beside
my ear.
it's gigantic.

it blares music that my friend tells
me is from some new Bollywood movie.
two hands grab mine and i'm up.
one link in a circle, dancing a
Middle-Eastern two-step that's only slightly
familiar.

faces come in and out of my line of sight.
i recognize none
and feel as if i'm in a Salman Rushdie novel.
maybe i'm Haroun, in a new place with a blue genie
saving a sea of stories, a princess, a land, and my father.
but then again, maybe not.

i would never save my father.

i spin, spin, spin
until i can't see straight.

i wake the next morning on the belly
dancers couch.
my friends are having coffee with her
and discussing whether or not to
take me to the hospital.

Nadia found some blow in my pocket
and flushed it down the toilet.
she found *** in the other and put it back.

they had decided to let me sleep
and from then on call me "American Dream."

we didn’t leave until 4 am.
told each other stories from high school
talked about religion and how it wasn’t really my thing,
and how she wasn’t really sure of her take on it,
examined our hands and compared the sizes,
discussed how she used to be a cheerleader,
our parents and their political tendencies,
and some mutual friends.

I already knew about her ex-boyfriend
through a mutual friend or two,
the self-proclaimed ******* of our generation,
trying too hard to be hip and who probably
***** himself to pictures of Kerouac and Hemingway.
all this while listening to Iron & Wine
‘cause that makes it art.

yeah. I knew about him.

and I had heard he claimed to respect women
from a couple of people.
and a couple of people told me he didn’t.
a conniving schemer disguised as a feminist,
nothing new.

I also knew about the ******* she'd
been "talking to" or some **** like that.
it didn't seem to matter much to me
or to her
so I figured that was all right.

we left the pancake joint and went back to her
place.
watched a Tarantino film and chatted about
deep topics carelessly,
exhaling want.

she shared some of her writing with me
and as morning approached
we locked arms and bodies,
her chin on my shoulder and
I snuck a kiss in her hair.
at once, our skin seemed in the way,
a barrier between us I wished to strip.

her roommate and a mutual friend
awoke and I waited while they got
ready and Lauren grabbed breakfast.

on the way out to my car,
following the two of them
I thought of past lovers and dismissed them
as I ate my heart out of my hands
and waited for my mind to settle,
but instead it rattled about all the how's
and why's of my draw.
I buried the key in the ignition,
we pulled away from away and towards
together.

our promised land is mortgaged
waters poisoned
your daughters legs are spread
mass culture ready to eat her out.

she buys it all-
the gossip rags, fake tans, cherry-flavored condoms.
she aches for it and it takes her gladly
leaving behind only a faint scent of perfume.

blood nails and ******* lips and artificial **** carry on.
girls lose their virginity only because it's trendy
and people obsess over the human interest
pieces on the nightly news.

i lash out with coffee breath
and short nails and unkept hair
and no religion
as my mother sits me down and
asks me not to step on any toes.

"rope, love."
she ropes me up.
sinks full of cigarette blood,
I drink it up.
catch it in my glass as it drips from the pipes.
predators and prey and no other
way out,
every place I hide
gives me up
sacrifice your kids for
me
sacrifice your head, your soul
I’ll eat them alive
and bury them in my insides.
grandmother’s Lincoln
leaving tread on your face
your liquor in the backseat
and your Mexican boyfriend falling all
over my hipster cousin, calling her his *****.
you lay on the bathroom floor
water races in the maze between the
tile
you’re in front of the door
I can’t get in.
cousin!
cousin!
let me in!
hard shove, pick up, not my cousin,  my lover!
dismemberment on the bed
you crawl all over
twists and turns and this once small
bedroom is now a labyrinth.
the television blares mindlessly in the other room
skin tears and eyes fall from sockets and I step over
my dead relatives to cross the street.
I scream,
and I drink blood out of a champagne flute
while checking my nails
and scraping the flesh out from under them.
everything about me invites you in
and masochism drives me mad with want.
Ego gets the best of me
cleanse me
purge me
scour me
I’m begging
cleanse me!
cleanse me!
I will never leave you,
never leave me, lover

give me your blood,
your tongue,
your lips,
your fingers,
some skin from inside your thigh,
and haunt me in passion
until I resurrect you at last!

Agonizing thoughts gather in
my head when I'm gone from my girl.
Lover, I haven't jumped on a plane,
I'm only a hundred miles away.
But these ideas increase-
I could go out, looking to relive nightmares
or create new-
I'm interrupted.

My uncle approaches me and says,
"kid, your eyes look a bit less blue."

"Must be the weather."

I stand, heading for the coffee ***,
and instantly feel weighted.
I think of things to come.
Dances in our bedrooms, her expression when
we make love.
I'm all choked up.

"Lost in thought, are we? Care to share?"

Share? Her? Lauren?
"No, no. I'm all right."

"A grandmother knows. Have some coffee."
She smiles as if she has a secret
and makes her way to her seat.

The coffee is just how I like it.
Perfect amounts of cream and sugar.
A grandmother knows.

"Kid, when you're away from your lover,
it's a terrible thing. But when you're the one that's away,
you're the one that can go back."

Lover, I'm ready to go back to you now.
Lover, I'm ready to rediscover you.
Lover, I'm aching to sink into your skin.
Lover, I'm longing to hold you again.

Swim.
Swim.
Swim.
Faster.

"Swim, kick, stroke,
or you won't get anywhere
in this ******* world, kid!"

At my old high school
where you were a ***** if you lost,
I was on nails everyday.
My muscles ached
in ways I didn't think possible.
My hands trembled in class,
and teachers looked at me with sorrow
in their minds, behind their eyes.

"You are nothing if you're not a winner
and here we only train champions.
Not musicians, not poets, or some
sappy, sad-as-**** writers.
You compete, you win, or you're out.
And you've been winning, so you're gonna train."

Word for word.
The veins in my head bulge.

"Faster! Faster!"

Even underwater the commands climb
in my ears,
slapping their way in with machete's
made minus mercy.
My coach, that *******
wants glory for this school, for this team
for himself,
wants it to come from me.

All I want is shadow.
To stand behind the curtains.

"You're gonna let everybody down!
FASTER! FASTER! FASTER!
MOVE YOUR ******* ARMS!
FASTER, *******!"

The bottom of the pool didn't
always look so menacing.
In fact, it almost looked inviting.

I turned the corner cautiously
into the kitchen at work,
hoping for emptiness.
I just wanted a quiet sanctuary,
away from the gossip agenda.
Much to my surprise, I found out
I'm ******* the secretary.

"That's odd," I think to myself.
"I don't recall that."

In struts Justin, the ******* from accounting.
"So, how'd you get that play?"
A devilish smile crawls onto his face

"*******, man."

I walk to the breakroom.
Kaylie's there in a pencil skirt that could
be mistaken for skin and a sheer shirt
over a lacy bra that pushes up her ****
so much you'd swear she was suffocating.
She raises an eyebrow and I assume that's
a greeting.
But she speaks as well,

"Hello, *******."

I gulp cold coffee down.
This talk is usual and never goes below two feet deep.
"Hello... what is it today? ****?"

"Very funny. I heard you're ******* the ***** up front."

"Yeah, well, talk is cheap, ain't it?  Besides, I heard you're blowing Troy."

"What? Where did you--"

"Relax, red light. I don't give a **** if he's ******* you on his head. Just make sure I don't walk in on the fun, alright?"

"You think you're such a smooth operator, don't you? You know, you could write the book on being an *******."

"Well, thanks for having faith, but you've got it wrong. I'm a smooth talker. And it would be a 10-step pamphlet. I don't have the integrity or patience to write a book."

"*******. When I'm a Washington big shot and you're a washed up ******* with a camera, we'll see who's laughing."

"When you're a Washington big shot, I'll set myself on fire and jump ship out of this ******* country, screaming "Kaylie the Cumbucket!" on the free fall down like the lunatic I am."

She grins, "sometimes I think you've lost your mind."

"Sometimes, red light, I know I have."

Sometimes, when I’m watching TV
Covered in my own filth
And feeling sorry for myself
I step in somebody else’s  shoes

I wonder how it feels to flip channels
Mindlessly, (a viewer expecting no harm)
and stumble upon a show that’s called…
****, I can’t remember.
featuring some reporter
whose name I can’t recall
but it’s not important,
and this reporter is sitting in some ****** hotel room,
when in bursts a gentleman dressed in a
***** red trucker’s hat
hunter’s vest
plaid shirt
worn jeans
and boots
who’s just arrived to claim the virginity of a 12 year old girl
who’s sold it to him on the internet and he’s travelled all this way
only to find a camera crew and that reporter
from 20/20 or some **** like that
waiting to catch him.
And they’ve caught him and it’s the third time
he’s pulled this
and now he’s exposed for the world to see
and they hate him and I hate him too.

I wonder how it feels to be you, viewer
who was molested in the 3rd grade
by your 23 year old step-brother
who had already ruined 4 other kids lives
and now this show, you feel, has just exposed you for
all the world to see
because you feel ***** walking down the streets
and the hottest shower on earth couldn’t get you clean
and your scar has been lashed open, fresh once again
and you used to love chocolate milk but now you want gin
and the first bite contorts your face into a distorted grin,
you don’t even like it but it does the job
keeps the powder dry
keeps any tears from escaping your eyes
you want to let your boyfriend touch you but you can’t
because he has hands and hands do bad things

I realize that what pity I have is generally
Wasted
on myself.
I am selfish.
I won’t be anymore.

I must’ve had seven cups of coffee
the morning of your funeral

Put on some slacks
Button my shirt (my mother forgot the weather and wore a skirt)
I do my best with my hair
Try to open my eyes and keep them wide

The night before is no better
In jeans and pearl snaps,
I get in my car and drive through town
The town you were raised in
My mother as well
And I, half raised

My cell phone has been off for
close to three days, shut in a drawer
Probably harboring messages from four
people who decided recently they were in love with me
And I'm sorry because I'm only ******* them

No computer, no phone, only stereo and headphones
Gentle distraction
As sadness rapes me over and over

I hold the door leading to you
There are people I know and some I don’t
Floating through the pews like ghosts
I approach you in a wooden, cushioned bed
Centered at the front like a sacrifice
No one dares to linger too long beside
A final viewing before we give you up

Everyone talks, smiles, braves it all
In the heartland
Of the heartland

With my family’s hearts dripping from my
hands.

It's the following morning
The supposed final goodbye,
The day before Thanksgiving and I am only rage.
I appear in hate of whatever God pulled this punch
My father and I
sit on the couch drinking coffee, dark.
I let it fester on my tongue, bitter and harsh
This house is hurricane
I haven’t slept in days and days
My eyes, like bloodshot moons,
Wane

Loss is plague

I drive to the church
My brother in the backseat
Steeple looming, scowling
knowing it’s wreaked it’s revenge on me

It hasn’t hit him yet

We pull up in the procession, the second car
behind your carrier, grandmother
I walk Max in
His eyes wax as he sees my mother in tears

It’*****

Pulls me down by my coat
Ear to mouth
“Grandma’s in heaven, right?”
Tears well in his blues

“Yes, Max, she’s in heaven.”
I can’t bring myself to say anything different

We sit in the splintered pews, old news living through bad news
A hand reaches for an older man’s shoulder
from behind
Two arms draped around him
Mother and aunt
This church is hell
Eulogy, song, tears
Everything I expected and dreaded
I hug my grandfather

I drive my brother and a couple cousins
To the cemetery
It looks like rain is dawning
Gray skies in a gray world
Grave sites in graver eyes
A prayer starts, the fourth or fifth today
Giving me time to think
Roses are passed
Carnations are stacked
Everyone lingers, little ones jump in mud
Family and friends talk

The red rose thorn ****** me
and I bleed goodbye blood

Goodbye, blood
Goodbye, grandmother
Goodbye

“We’re so happy.”

“Only in the picture though.”

Happiness flees
Like water moving underneath the trees
You can’t step in the same river twice
(Maupassant's Pierre et Jean taught me that)
So I just don’t step in at all.

But I do other things
With my feet and
hands.
Other people.
I slide my hand up her
Skirt.
I slide my foot up her
Slacks
She stands up after she
figures it out.
That I’m a miserable ****
Who just wants off
And only sees doubt.

A ghostly harvest is upon us.
Taxes and national debt
draw seeping green from my pores
and Wall Street thoughts from my ears.
Everyone everywhere
is sick.
No one can get a word in and
Money talks.

The water rippled with
miniature tidal waves as she stepped in
Clothing absent
Skin, mind, feeling,
All bare before me
She sunk in.

I shrunk to the floor
Next to the tub
She seemed to float in her
oatmeal bath
I reached for the book
The one I bought her from
a hole in the wall store
in my hometown.

My eyes drift to the tips of her hair
Dipped into the water, almost baptismal
Most people have hair growing from
their head.
Lauren's is embroidered

I open the cover
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

From my lips,
where love once halted
and sighed in defeat,
a voice leaves reserved only for her

We clutch hands
I, almost immediately,
completely instinctively,
squeeze tight,
afraid she might drown
were I to let go.

But she doesn't need saving
Neither do I.
Because of that
There is love.
Reading to her in the bath
Is love
Holding her hand is love
Dining on her past
Is love.

She who tastes of divinity
gazes upon me with eyes
of earth.
There was no moment holier
than when we were
intertwined.
And I, laced with desire
make love to her with a
crazed passion.

The only one I'll worship.

Her face as clear as
moonlight on midnight water
I dive into her, temperature
neither cool nor warm.
Only love.
Only ecstasy embracing
every nerve
Only eyes speaking
every word.

The only one I'll worship

She gnaws on my bones,
porous yet impenetrable
She aches to get in and
I could never say no.
So now she flows within my blood
Within my body
Bringing from this coffin life
Holy life
Love I could never describe.

The only one I'll worship.

With shades of gray our lives
Intertwine
We collide always
My ways were changed but it doesn’t come so nicely
Relax, Relapse, Relax
It’s back to the floor I go
I can hear reverberations and feel the
Syncopation of our hearts as one
A single touch and my tension comes undone
With eyes to calm storms and a smile to awaken waves
We wait and watch and feel and want
And need and heed this warning;
I might love you too much

Don’t go, don’t go
Don’t open a black void
Greater than the sea
The abyss to swallow virtue
To waste my love
Streets dead and hollow
I’m left wondering where you are
There will be no climbing up
No light. No soft, human touch.
Cancer of the soul
Devouring, if you go
"Devour me, if she goes."
Left dead like the moon
Left cold like the snow
Both things beautiful
Both sad on the surface below
If you go.

Bring one through the mercenary’s lines
Trouble started long ago
Fighting and fighting and fighting
Uniting is much more sensible
Without ever letting go I lose you
Skeptical about it all the time
Hearts re-animate, but as for minds?
I’ll be chopping down trees
And buildings burn to the ground
I should’ve known.

The one on the left has a broken jaw thanks to dad
The one on the right, well her mom’s a *****
But she lies and says it’s not that bad
So Satan lives on
Humanity is slouching away from the sun
Dragging ghosts when they could just float away
We just need to feel sad to tell ourselves they’re present
Daily problems, daily problems…
So use me up, use me up, it’s all I want
One day, when no one can tell us no,
The two of us will head for Mexico