It all went very well,
it was a terrible disaster.

You looked so peaceful, lying
awake in the dark,
so hideous the morning after.

I didn't want to walk alone,
I didn't want to hold your hand.

I'm in love with you.
You, who I cannot stand.

the funny thing about time
is the way it grinds your bones to dust
while they’re still sitting in your flesh

we can all feel it,
we pretend we don’t, but we do

you feel it when you wake up in the morning
having dreamt of your childhood
and the sound of your sister’s laughter is still ringing in your ears

you feel it when you look up from a book
and its not your brother sitting in the chair next to you
but a strange fellow with a deep voice
and a nose that looks remarkably familiar

and strongest of all, you feel it when at the dinner table
your mother asks you what you’ve been up to for the past 18 years

see, the funny thing about time
is the way it grinds your bones to dust
while they’re still sitting in your flesh

just the other night, I pressed my palms together
and I called on a friend I hadn’t seen in awhile,
to ask where he’d been

he told me he’d been spending time with my father
because the man really needed some company
without his oldest son to talk to

oh and while I have you, he said,
your mother called
she told me to tell you
that your bed is made, if you ever want to come home

To My Father

I wish I had never met you
because then you'd be a mirage,
an illusion I created, more handsome,
still absent, but valiant.
Brilliant. The mysterious
dark figure who rode off
on a white horse, the epic hero
who gave me
my nose.

But, instead, you raised me
poorly, as if I were an extension of your
self-loathing. And it didn't work
and you left and I would rather
mourn your death than
eat dinner with you
ever again.

It hurts the soul to be conceived
in hate, veins coursing with accidental
heredity, like the daughter of
a serial killer, worried
I am half you and it's my fault
and I am doomed.

To Myself**

You have been handed lies
like family heirlumes
and they are not your
weight to carry, you have to
give them back.

You are not your father, you do
not have his nose, you are not doomed
and history does not repeat itself.
Unlearn your childhood and
clear the slate. You need to be
un-nurtured, my dear.

You are beautiful and brave
and you change your circumstances.
You run like hell away
from anyone who dims
your flame.
You protect yourself.
You change.

I rarely drink.
I am the responsible one
out of all of my friends, I don't smoke,
I seldom
give in. I avoid temptation.
Thirsty for experience.
Emotionally
sober.

I had a boyfriend, once, brown hair, blue
eyes, who bought me dinner, and spent
the night and
had a toothbrush awkwardly leaning
against mine, who may have
actually cared about me
but showed it by leaving
in the middle
of the night.

I never think about my father,
stopped allowing him to water
the weeds he planted in my brain, now we are
separated by five years like time
is a brick wall and somehow
I am safe.

I have repressed every single one
of my childhood memories, and I believe
if my life ever flashes before my eyes
before I die, I
wouldn't even
recognize it.

The intervention is a blur, I can hardly
make out who surrounded me,
I forgot which concerned expression
belonged to which person
and who it was that said
they just want
the best
for me.

There must be someone
in the infinite cosmos
who wants the best for me.
I love myself.
I am not lonely.

This is a poem for people
who have turned self-destruction
into an art form, who
rip through lives like
serrated knives,
people with
glass teeth and hearts
even more fragile.

This is a poem for the martyrs of
philosophy, who stir madness
like sugar into their tea,
who speak exclusively in
Kafka quotes and
fortune cookies.

This is a poem for lost travelers,
compassless and tired who
walk alone for a lifetime
cleverly disguised as
a single moment.

This is for the artists
who paint entire novels about
confused platonic heartache and
destroy relationships as often
as they destroy canvas,
who start crying if you ask them
about their future, not because
the concept frightens them, but because
it will only ever be
a concept.

This is a poem for the believers
whom I admire, the ones who cut out
bible verses like coupons,
buy-one-get-one-free morality,
the ones who will never
pull the nickel cross
off their necks no matter how
bad life gets.

This is a poem for the boys who always
come back, who never really left,
who sit below me in all kinds of weather,
who hold down my soul,
who are my anchor.

I wish I could write
something brilliant.
The pick-up line
to end all.

A perfect one-liner
utterly unique and so
refreshing, it sinks
into your
skull.

I wish I could say
something beautiful
to make you fall
in lust.

A euphemism or
anecdote to light the fire
that will burn
history.

I can write us out
of the ashes,
x's and o's
in cursive.

I can write around
your reluctance
to let anything good
happen.

I will write you into
a love letter, fold it like
a paper airplane
and throw it.

If you ever read it,
scribbled in the folds it says,
"I love you." Only one
of the many
phrases
that I did
not use
enough.

There is nothing
quite as sad as
a man who dies
a social death.

His heart still
moves blood through
his veins.

His yellow teeth still
tear through
the days.

He wastes oxygen
and drinks the air
in rooms where he is
unwanted.

He crashes parties
uninvited.
And dresses up so
unimportant.

He sits and waits
for a response
that will never
arrive.

He watches the hours
and years slip
slowly by
and calls it
life.

Anywhere but here.
A wild, yea-saying
over-burst
of American
joy.

West or East or
to a coast.
To dark cement alley
ways crammed in
the back pockets of
the states.

To fluorescent city sky
profiles and bright
yellow-brick-road
side streets.

Let's race our dreams
and see who
crosses the finish
line first.

Let's drown this old
place, trade it for a new
space, one with
better people
and a longer
summer.

Forget the people
you ran from. Focus
on the hopeful,
mysterious
figures looming
in the future.

**** my love
problems
and ****
yours. Let's
go.

Let's ride a
train out west
and jump off at
the last second--
before it crashes
in a fiery dark blue
Pacific ocean
explosion.