simple reminders:
beach towels,
mustaches,
grilled vegetables
beetles,
time.

not what you think but a little smaller.
you forgot to paint your t-shirt
with any colors.
it's something to marvel at in the day
and to dread in the night,
and fill with the lush scent
of your iron perfume, like manufactured lilacs.

you dance for something temporary
and lift yourself from dreamlessness
to be touched by a crude ex-lover
because he slipped thirty-five dollars
beneath your door.
and you don't know what to do,
so you try only to love him again
and learn to accept his dry humor.

but coffee is to dark,
and juice is too light
and your relationship is too formal
and his touch is too soft
and your moans are too loud
and your *** is too slow
and your eyes are too dry
and your lips hurt
and your toes cramp
and you think about your mother
and you forget to breathe.

Whisper, she said in a voice that was not real
because it did not exist
it was not true that she lied, for she was not real and neither were her truths.

there is pain in my eyes, she would feel it, and she would not fix it.
there is no cure for relentless tears which sometimes come of will,
but today stung and dried out my eyes. she can't touch them.

who is real anymore? god, i will be on your side if you agree to a few conditions.
(i will think later—now i am writing.)
keep in touch, alright, dear? she asks but there is no answer. typical.

it is okay, it is not okay, there is a choice i have to choose.
and she can do it for me, i am tired of being the one who knows.
maybe the leaves carry enough weight to fall on my shoulders,
and that is better than the load i currently carry.
(oh the beauty of alliteration.)

i don't want to know, i want to face the sun, even if it blinds me,
and i will be just like everyone else and that's how it is.
(i can't capitalize, i hate pressing the shift button.)

take into account the fact that i am not a bird, or a deer, or dead, or alive.
and at this point you will see who i really am.
i don't expect you to understand until your late thirties,
at which point you will not even remember this moment,
this moment where you read the thoughts that flow through my mind and onto here,
taking up a space that matters to nearly no one and effects none at all.

i have no choice in the matter, i can't make me into someone else or something else.
can i ask you politely to stop ******* making me feel like it's not enough?
here is fall, where the leaves shall drop and land on my shoulders,
and god help me forget the reasons i am asking for weight in the first place
and help me remember how to lie and make things okay;
because, god, what is life but one ******* lie you have told me?

Whisper, she says in a voice that is not real, make sure no one else will hear this lie.

there are some secrets that are what they say.
there are some that tuck back behind your earlobe and I am not obligated to say which ones they are,
as you are not obligated to ask.
but I will say I cannot tell myself at times, and then I have to ponder why I even know that this is even true; or how.

Look, buddy, I whisper in your ear, I don't want to hold your hand anymore. I don't want to touch you like I have, or share my apartment, okay?

you act like this is some surprise, like you never expected me to hate you eventually.
like I am totally ******* you right now.
you even have the nerve to laugh.
I know what kind of secret yours was, and I know what kind of secret mine was.

until you get serious I will not move, and when you're done I say, I'm done ******* with you and I'm done knowing you **** with me.

So this is my fault? you ask.

Now you are just being a ****. I'll give you three of five stars, okay? I say, and I let you figure me out on the corner of 7th and Mott.

Three and a half? you try, and you follow my across the street. C'mon, the *** was ******* delectable.

This is what I'm talking about, I tell you as my hair whips out from under my hat and I know my nose is red.
it is too cold to be fighting.
Nothing was ******* delectable, go shove your **** somewhere else, I'm sure you'll find it just as enjoyable. Because I'm finished.

I touch your nose gently and kiss your cheek.

I stand by my original rating. Three out of five, I say and I walk down 7th until I reach the corner.

*******! you call and I just wish people knew you were talking to me.

your secrets were exactly what they said they were, and that was boring as hell.
have I taught you nothing? keep them tucked in the right places.

you never know what you'll stumble upon.

It's a mirror in the doorway that tells me I can look no further.
I am not experienced, like you.
I don't know how to defy this.
I don't think gravity is on my side;
nor luck or love.
I wonder why, sometimes.

It feels like summer in winter
if I think of you with my eyes closed.
And there's something kicking at the edge of my mind,
like a skeleton tired of being locked away
and tired of trying to read in the dark.
The bulb is burnt out.
I can't see anymore than you can,
but at least you have the key to the closet.

I meant to be this and that
and all the things you used to get mad at me for being.
I'm not sure why you're so simple,
so feeble.
When I used to admire your heart I would sit on my knees
so that when my feet went numb I could feel the pin-***** of waking up.

Now you've been sleeping for years,
and I know, at this point, that I'm not Prince Charming.
You've told me nearly a million times.
Or at least your lips have,
as they mouth the words of your death,
like a diabetic child ******* on a forbidden lollipop.
I still can't seem to miss you.

She is an angel, I think. At the very least, she can fly. A few times now I've glimpsed her stretching her wings in the privacy of her bedroom, naked in front of the mirror or in front of the windows. All I can see are the curves of her legs and hips though the tall keyhole, and often the feathers that cover her bare, dark skin. There is something empty about her when I see her there that I feel the need to fill, shadows pushing her closer to the crimson curtains that flutter with her movement.

I often linger by the door longer than I should and imagine her flying, a contrast to the soft sky and clouds surrounding her, the light air only lifting her farther up.

I've knows for three years that she wants to leave me. I can often sense it in the way she breathes and blinks slowly and moves about the kitchen. She eyes me as if we speak completely different languages, and sometimes I believe we actually do. I'm too this or that for her, but her image is unchanging in my mind. I will let her fly from that open window any moment she chooses. I can do nothing; I watch her life simply through a keyhole.

She seems reluctant to jump. With my mind I will her to test her wings, as a child tests the water of his grandmother's swimming pool before diving in, limbs flailing. He can swim, though the cold water is hard to breathe in at first, and he moves from side to side in chilled giddiness.

The rustling of her wings keeps me up at night, as I lay in bed half asleep, half dreaming, in a hot and clustered mind. And I keep one eye open, too, for I know in some day to come that she'll be gone when I awake.

It used to be that your stares held me in a captured moment,
framed and mounted on your wall,
as if my current expression would be stuck forever on my face.
Your eyes are cold, and so am I.

It used to be that your skin radiated heat like a wood stove with only the coals left burning,
I loved laying in your arms, imagining that you had laid in the sun all day.
Your fists are cold, and they are hard.

Now imagine a secret so powerful that it could carry the weight of your father--
for God knows he is a heavy soul.
I cannot hold that for you; I'm done.
My imagination is dry, and it is used up.

You slur your dreams and
pour black paint into the mouths of those you care for
until their eyes run still.
My heart is frozen in a block of ice,
but you used the icepick to hack off your toenails and then put it into the recycle.

What do you want?

It used to be that your heart blanketed the stars during the day,
holding safe the dreams that were almost close enough to touch.
My fingers yearn to grab, my eyes ache to close,
and all I can do is miss the feeling of wrapping myself inside of you like a blanket,
until my dreams took me, and you would slip away and fly.