I get drunk on your hot summer sky eyes.
I get drunk on their sultry, reckless, bright
reminder of a fresher world when
we hollered off wind-swept cliffs and panting
ran heart-bursting through wild open spaces
when the world was new and strange but entire
-ly ours to command.
I got drunk on you.

'It'll get bad reviews, we should scrap the project before it breaks the budget.'*


We sit and talk art and beauty, love and fear,
my heart cracking open, and you,
rushing in.

We sit and talk,
play at this deadly game,
ignore the consequences,
shun the inconsistencies. The

words,
words,
words,
they swirl,
and
we slip,
we slip,
we slip.

It's a real cliffhanger.

Hearts on sleeves,
music weaves,
stories come to light.

Secrets, oozing out between
the well crafted lines of
our carefully scripted plot.

We sit and talk circles around
the herds of white elephants
that come to watch the show.
Mocking us, they laugh
as we tiptoe through fields of daffodils
under dark skies with rainbows.

(Scene change now)

In dark of night
I squeeze out hope
from my heart.
God ****** hope
twists up and knifes
me in the side,
leaves me bleeding on the floor.

And you,  fool you are,
rush to my aid.
If you're saving me,
who's saving you?

You, with your secret decoder ring
from your box of caramel corn, cracking
my heart, you peel my layers.

Your questions run deep but your feet will run faster, and

I'll fall,
I'll fall,
I'll fall.

Gravity's a real drag;
I've felt it's pull before.

Me, with my third eye see the pan and play.
This show will end leaving us all sitting in our seats
wanting another thirty minutes,
a tidier ending.

This ain't Disney.

We'll feel like we've been
ripped,
ripped,
ripped.

No refunds here,
go file your complaint with the man upstairs.

The audience stands, turns to go.

White elephants know there's no silver lining,
no *** of gold.
They threw popcorn at the screen, but you didn't notice.

I always hated white elephants;
I thought you did too.
Who invited them to the show?

We step outside,
no curtain call,
no applause.

Hail falls down on this sunny blue day.

Afraid to touch you, but
I want to catch you in my mouth.

Would you please just go away,
before I end up with lumps
on my head,
in my throat?

My eyes blinded by the sun,
the hail,
this ill fated show.
​

You are not my children,
tender as you are.
You are not my lover,
though you cause my heart to yearn.
You are not my sun,
or my moon,
or my star.

I set you on this rock;
you will not make me burn.

You are simply sticks,
arranged upon the pyre.
You are clever tricks,
though you flaunt my clear desire.
You are not the match,
or the wick,
or the fire.

I set you on this rock;
To see what might transpire.

You will never be a pheasant's egg to be coddled.
You are only this: a calf led to the slaughter.

Isn't it strange
That you
cause
the pain
And
The only cure
For it
Is you.

It is going to be okay.

bushes,
you've beaten about them &
smoke,
you've blown--

you've circled your fist a few times to get to your
thumb &
you've tiptoed around&around;&around--;

[stutters&wells;&whatdoYOUthinks;&um;/um/umms--]

but the answer is still in the mist
of unnecessary cocktails &
dawdling moments,
misplaced emotions--

I'm just as confused as you,
& the mixtapes you've made
just won't do
this time--

because music can speak louder than words,
[if your words cannot be found in the first place];
but you've been searching for them
half as long as you've been searching for something else--

--that is--
                                                            ­                              --yourself.

**for just because I have found you,
doesn't mean that you have just yet.

dark bars
no light in sight
but the light that emanates from your throat.
it cascades through the barren landscape of this rough and worn city.

there’s nothing here for us,
you say,
as we hail a taxi cab heavily into the night

your breath smells like it longs to feel something tonight.
and I respond with a grasping hold on your thigh.

where else can we go? I ask,
as I truly do not know.

your slurs say as you point,
not here,
but your eyes said,
right ******* here
and
right ******* now.

my hand slides up your thigh.
pant, pant.

you gaze out the window,
and I watch how the streetlights glance at you from the parks and alleys.

suddenly, you call to the cabby
here! this is it!
and the brakes nearly shake me out of the reverie we’ve created.

your car door is already open by the time I’ve unhooked my seatbelt and paid the man.

the night is so dark,
I can only see the bottom of your
expensive shoes and
your toothy grin
like a child who’s found
his
missing
piece.

what’s so significant about this bench? I ask,
you are positively fondling it in joy.

I turn around to see if the cabby
has in fact left me for dead here;

indeed, it’s just you and I for
the
Night.

the echoes of traffic and of the moonbeams
ringing in my ears and your calling further into the park
something akin to
I’ve found the one for whom my heart sings
though the word “sings”
sounds more like
sinks
deep in this wooded night.

my mouth gapes open as I look above to see
many moths aflutter on rooftops
engaging in perilous flight

I stop to wonder if any of them
must long for something more
than a swift battle with the night
and light--

as I look back down,
I see that you have begun walking back toward me.

what’s the deal with this park bench?
I yell to you.

you’d never understand,
you say.

what a pain that is to hear.

what part of
this euphonious spider's web
has ever made you think
I’d not understand?

suddenly defensive I sweep off into the night

wait,
you call,

but I am too far gone.
-----

I wrestle in my coat pockets for a call home and find
a pen wedged within its bowels.

headlights flicker on its metal surface as I look both ways before crossing,
but step out instead--

a taxi swerves to stop but I
find myself running into it
toward it
within it
opening the door and throwing myself in--

I ignore your voice over the muddled traffic sounds
and listen to my own instead:

where to?
the man says.

to where.*  
I say.

the pen shrieks in my hand
before I notice how it has bled over the leather before me

expletives overflow onto the smooth seat I sit upon
and I am unaware of where this strength has come from

what the **** are you doing, lady?*
the man screams

the door swings open
before I even have a chance to cease its quick decision.

I leave the pen on the seat, screaming
it will torment the man instead.

a screeching pain emits from my shins as I see
there are pieces of asphalt imbedded in this new chapter
of the same sad story
I’ve been telling for the past
*******
year.

I sit on the sidewalk
examining my wounds
and suddenly you approach
panting,
and angry.

as I record the glistening pearls of ****** remission
you greet me with,

I was so worried.

like hell you were,
I say without looking up.

your voice means nothing to me any longer.

you’re bleeding,
you mention as though it has been the
most original idea you’ve had within the past three years.

my hand plunges deep into my own flesh,
emerging
covered in blood,
as I caress your rugged face.

yes,
I am,
I say.

and I can see in your eyes that it
is
here
and  it
is
now

your hand suddenly lifts me from the sidewalk
and into the woods behind you--

my blood hums on your cheeks for just a moment
before it melts into the sewer.

your hands are no longer hungry,
but full of assurance--
as though this were the one thing
you’d known to do.

my gasp echoes against the trees above the traffic cacophony

your knees are scuffed as you drag me out into the park woods again

wait----

I gasp for a fleeting moment

we are?

yes, you say

we are

and as my breath catches in my throat,


**I see.

Open internet bookmarked pages,
creased and cut newspaper pages
and what do you find laying there?
Lies! Written and typed white lies
that can change the minds of men
and the diet restrictions of nervous, plump women.

I know what is real, I think:
          1. Gradient blue skies that are swiped across the Cambridge ceiling at night. They are real.
          2. The feelings you feel for those you have felt feelings for. They’re real
          3. Falling hail and wet shoes, socks moist with Spring’s choice of weather. That was real.
          4. Falling shrapnel of the Boston Bombs that embedded themselves into the tired thighs of  marathon runners running upon high. That was real.
          5.  This poem may well be real, but I haven’t the guts to say in concrete-words that it matters in the grand scheme of things. This might not be real, I regularly think.