I'm normally a reserved person,
But you tear that out of me with unbridled passion.
I think you like to watch me squirm.

I know so much about you,
But there is still so much more to learn.
I wouldn't have it any other way.

I need to pace myself,
But something about you urges me forward.
I'm tired of stagnancy.

I've heard of this feeling,
But I have always figured people were just exaggerating.
I can't wait to find out.

I hadn't written in years,
But I find myself breaking that tradition.
I guess I found my muse.

To the old man buying oranges,
          We have never spoken,
                    But I owe you my thanks.
You wandered into the store,
          Locking onto the produce section,
                    You demand the honor your age grants.
Carefully you inspect the fruit one by one,
          Examining every dimple, checking every rind,
                    Scouring for flaws in your beloved items.
Placing the chosen few in your basket,
          You set out for the lines,
                    And ****** yourself into my spot.

Because of your age, I do not object.
You transfer your citrus treasures to the belt,
          Locking them in place, between the dividers.
You glance back at me with a scornful expression,
          I look away feeling guilty, for what I didn't know.
You release from your wallet only what is required,
          And quickly bury it back out of sight.
You hand over your money sourly.
Latching onto your bag of chosen keepsakes,
          You march out the door glaring at the ground.

I pay for my items and head out as well.
As I exit the store I see it in an instant,
          Your tiny frail body tumbling through the air,
                    Landing onto the car that almost missed you,
                              But sadly it did not.
The crowd rushes toward you, lying there quietly.
          It all happened so fast.
I watch as your oranges flee from their bag,
          Rushing away from the tragedy that freed them,
                    Tumbling quickly away with your life.


To the old man buying oranges,
          We have never spoken,
                    But I owe you my thanks,
                              For taking my place in line.

When I first met you your light changed me,
         this girl bursting with energy
                                                   communing with nature
                                                                                    and bleeding poetry.
I felt alive when talking to you,
                 comparing your serene coolness to my cheap imitation
                                                                                 must have looked foolish,
but it was innocent and lovely.

Right about then you threw up in my room.

Everything I learned about you just sparked more desires.
      I caught myself writing poetry to your praise
                                                  and leaping at you with blinders on to anything that I didn’t care for.
Your smile evolved from what I first felt was charming
                                                                                   into something deadly and seductive.
You gave me chills and left me
      gasping
            for
              air.

We ****** but you hated when I called it that,
      you used cutesy words and danced around all of my advances.

We ran out of small talk questions as time rolled on,
       settling into philosophy
               and debates about how people are alike and different.
We took turns falling into the pessimist role and donning the cloak of the eternal optimist,
         I was always better at the former.
I caught a glimpse of the shadow cast hiding behind your shining light.
            Being that it was a part of you it naturally interested me,
                    and I pressed you for more and more.

You drank yourself unconscious at a party and I held you in my arms.
        I nursed you back to health and we “fricked” for the entire night.
I didn’t even care that you smelled like puke.

We filled in the blanks trading blows of what we considered our darkest secrets.
          Yours always won and they made me see you in a new light,
                   almost as this delicate beauty majestically growing in a dark void.
I understood you better, and I almost wished I didn’t.

“Sure I can bring some over,
                 I’m just glad to see you.
     How have you been?  
          No I don’t have anymore.
                 Yeah I’ll leave.”

I started to hear the same stories;
                     I still laughed at your energy and enthusiasm in telling them.
    I saw you less and less and when I did you seemed different,
              like you were just donning some mask, playing a part just for me
. That’s when I first noticed the split in you.
       The tired lines stretching from your cheeks
                                                              holding up that delicate smile,
               I was determined to erase them.

You still banged me from time to time.
     So like a pilgrim to a holy land I kept showing up
            bringing alcoholic offerings as a sign of good faith.
We never talked about poetry anymore,
       but I didn’t mind.
We hid in your basement and ******* about the world,
             until the beer ran out, or you passed out and I left.

Your eyes hurt me then.
    What I once saw as a mirror like shine filled in,
              and now seemed glassy and shallow.
I started drawing when we hung out to have an excuse not to stare into them anymore.
        Life raged on and it seemed like the waves were slowly eating away the girl I knew.

I realized that I was your fix.
       When I called you on it you laughed and seemed surprised it took me this long to get it,
I didn’t stop coming,
    it actually felt good to get rid of the pretense,
           it was like a show, watching you drink away your soul.
Some friend I am. At least I wasn’t a drunk I told myself.

As your life spiraled downwards from your addiction it brought you to a lot of painful places.
        Places with bars and handcuffs,
                  places with straps,
                         places with tubes connecting your tiny frame to big machines.
I wasn’t there to see you in those places, I couldn’t.

I started yelling at you,
       trying to wake you up from the slumber you seemed content to stumble around in. 
 I lectured you and watched as you let it flow right past.
          I called you on your lies and refused to be your delivery service.
I hoped it wasn’t too late.

I want to see that girl who bleeds poetry again,*

And I’ll wear my best suit to your grave.

there was once “a simple desultory philippic”
witty words put to music by men of another age
but now only lanky lyrics on a soundless page

that which hath power to soothe the savage breast
has long ago been mournfully put to rest
by a cursed plague visited upon my ear
that purloined much I rightfully revere

so for those who can still hear sweet melody
do not forget to bow down thankfully
for the syncopated sounds that still delight
and other treasures beyond our sight

the night was already crazy-wild by the time
we arrived at Jarred's pool.
he had a big house but we never went in

4 teens, teen dream, a dream team;
but I knew deep down just what it was
we snuck out for.

a "transform-optional" rite, this hollow night.
but I still had doubts...
as Jarred offered me an aluminum can of something and I nervously said, "no thank you",
the moon had proudly jut out

he had a big house but we never went in.

I hadn't noticed, without the moonlight, just how
sharp Jarred's teeth and fingernails were.
canines, ivory & sporadic. looking at me

I hadn't noticed how reptilian our 2 friends were
The fangs and dislocating jaws, tendrils & scales.
Man-o-war for a head, giant earthworm for an arm
She looked scarier than he.

Those 2 went at each other in a murderous way
A blood sport of sorts. Confusing to me.
She spread her jaws wide - a parachute with teeth
And bit down hard between his legs.

Blood everywhere. Blood spattered on her face
She looked ****** god-awful by then.
The meat of his dead body then re-animated
And assimilated with hers. Anabiosis + Differentiate

Jarred, a werewolf or something like it, approached me.

He had a big house but we never went in.

we chatted poolside for a while
he'd go harmoniously from monster to human, human to monster.
Boiling cancerous growths under his fur
Grew angry eyes that glared at me.
clawhand on the back of my neck,
he went in for a kiss (or a bite)
with a puckered face and bared teeth.

This is it.
I finally felt a grossness so profound that I,
without thinking, jumped in the pool
to splish-splash, cool, to escape, whatever

I opened my eyes and just floated there for a bit.
hanging in the stillness
trying to forget those alien freaks
staring up at the moon
from the bottom of a pool.

the coffee was cold.
a day old.
i heated it.
poured it.
fought through it.

put on a b-film.
something about crap
films made our lives
feel more fulfilling.

we laughed.
exposed every flaw.
we held hands.
snuck
loving glances.

i have to wake up in three
hours, but all i can think
is life is luck,
even for the dumbest of us,
when you tell your
eyes to open up.