You used to search my back, arms, and even my *** for zits.
When you found one, you went to
work at popping it.
It hurt like hell, but I never
said anything, because it seemed to
bring you such pleasure.
Sometimes, I don't even think there
was a zit.You would just squeeze a
freckle or birthmark.

And chocolate, for God's sake, you loved it.
Whenever I could afford it, I'd
buy you chocolate bars.And when I
couldn't, I'd steal them.
You hated me stealing, but you
loved chocolate.

In those golden Summer evenings,
I remember carrying your son on
my shoulders into the pink and
lavender sunsets.
We had story time on the Shelter couch,
your head resting on my shoulder.

But time, as it always does, rages on.
You have your son, your apartment, your job.
I have my river, my writing. and my ducks.
I feed them bread, not chocolate.
And although they wake me up at dawn by
walking on my back, they don't
mess with the zits.

I've trained them to eat bread out
of my hand.Their little tongues feel
like sandpaper.
I'll never look at
zits and chocolate the same.

I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken
smells like a T.V dinner.

I sit at my window and look out at the
snowflakes; they fall vertically, horizontally under
the grey black sky. I watch the dog break open the
bone and lick the marrow out. I watch the
big white cat sleep, snore, maybe dreaming of
a fat sparrow in his mouth. I think of taking
a bite of the sunset, living in a cave; the way
a marimba sounds when I’m haunted,
how Hamsun took bites of his hand in hunger.
My mind drifts to Van Gogh’s potato eaters,
the ***** that rejected his ear, Lautrec’s withered
legs and beautiful heart. I think of the falcon in
the city, the stranger in the mirror, the brutality
of man and the wonder in the doe’s eyes.

Anything but algebra, I took the compass test for
college, 99% in writing, 96%.in reading and 17% in math.
I have to retake the math and score a 25% or better.
I despise math, my girlfriend says, “You love math, it
gets you loans and grants.”
My brain bleeds with numbers and equations,
but she’s right,
I like loans and grants.

So I’m back at it, like a kid to
the dentist, and math does its job,
it pushes me back to
the word, the line, my dirt road
through the madness.

I've said her eyes had
the color of a madness shade
of blue.
That's not true.
They are the color of
love and angels, and
eternal spring.
Her eyes sing of
motherhood and light rain.
The sun shines through them-
a tepid pool that I
want to jump in and swim;
back float through the
daisies and spilled juice,
through the ravens-
all the way to heaven.

I found this thing when I was a little boy.
It's a beast of some sort; it has fur,
sharp
teeth, and a long tail.It's pulse sounds
like a ticking clock.It's beautiful and
hideous all at once.The thing makes me
feel immortal, like I'm a part of something
big and important.Sometimes it eats
everything in sight. And other times, I think
it might be starving.
It smells like ****, death, and *****.
But sometimes it smells like lilacs and
autumn and different women from my life.
I haven't been able to tame it, but I
feel like it's my friend.

It runs away from time to time.
I stay awake staring at the black sky,
worrying that it will never come back.
I walk the streets looking for the thing on
dark nights and foggy days.
Sometimes, I find it hiding in a patch of
tall grass- all wet and *****.
But usually it comes home on its own,
when it's tired of the vagabond life.
It does tricks that make people laugh
and cry and think.
When strangers and friends see the thing,
their reactions vary: Some people hate it;
they want to **** it, they never say that,
but I can see it in their eyes.
They say, Who needs a thing like that?
But other people appreciate the thing; they
love it and the way it makes them feel.
They say, I want a thing like that.

Sometimes I think the thing is almost
holy, the way it walks into a room and
looks at everyone with its searching eyes.
I'm sure it knows magic.I have a hard
aching love for the thing.It has the
most disturbing eyes; They change color
depending on its mood. When I look into
the thing's eyes, I see people and places in a
different light.Smells take shape and waltz
around the room.I can taste sorrow and
loneliness; I can here the wind blow ripples
across a small pond surrounded by cattails.

I've had the thing so long, I don't know
where I begin and it ends.
We don't always get along, but it's usually
because it won't behave the way I want it to.
It puts up with my selfishness, and kisses
me on occasion.It has no perception of time.
I'm getting old.I'm no longer the boy I
was when I found the thing.I like
it best when we walk together and try
to make sense of this carnival ride of a
world.It sleeps with me every night.
Sometimes, I hardly know it's there.
But I like it best when it snores and dreams,
and I feel its hot, sweet breath on
my face

On my windowsill,
of that indigo night
you took me,
and I haven't
been the same since.

Something about you
makes me want to
be a better man.
I've grown wings,
so I take to the sky.