9:00pm: We hugged and chatted. Your sister joking with us, your brothers being silly. I love your siblings.

9:30pm: We went hunting for gear. Your dad helped us find sleeping mats and told us where to find some tarps.

10:00pm: We climbed onto the fort and made our beds. I swept the bugs and pine needles away. I remember thinking, I hate pine needles. Why Florida trees, why?

10:30pm: We made tea and got ready for bed. I love chamomile tea. Lots of sugar. Washing off my makeup was easy with your sister's fancy face wipes.

10:45pm: We climbed into our sleeping bags. I was warm. I love the plaid pattern of the sleeping bag I always use.

11:00pm: We ate snacks, drank tea, and talked. Poptarts are so good late at night. Better than in the morning. And the hot tea felt so good against the chilling breezes.

11:30pm: I turned off the flashlights. I liked it better that way. I like hearing only voices, not seeing the person. My hearing what they say feels amplified that way.

11:30pm: I laid on my back and realized how pretty the trees are. The sky was orange, oddly lit up more than normal for that time of night. Few clouds drifted in the sky.

12:00am: I poured the story out to you.

12:05am: I began watching the moon cross the sky. It was very orange and it moved faster than I imagined it would.

12:30am: I got a text.

1:00am: I proposed an adventure. I wanted to do something. I wanted not to have to think for a while. I like late night happenings. And I like not being alone.

1:15am: We got off our lazy butts and went to the garage. I started riding the ripstick. I picked it up right away and didn't fall which was new for me.

1:30am: You taught me how to longboard. It was fun, though I kept forgetting which way I would put my feet.

1:45am: We started riding bikes. I love your mom's bike. It's so smooth and easy to ride..but it clicks sometimes in weird ways. I liked the clicking too.

1:50am: ***** it, I didn't want to reply.

2:00am: We rode through the neighborhood. I love the houses in Naples..

2:05am: I fell in love with the night sky. It was beginning to look more like the normal dark blue rather than orange. The stars started to peek through better.

2:10am: The cold air made my blood rush. I was wearing such warm clothes, but the wind went straight through. I loved going fast, racing you. Speed is beautiful on a bike.

2:15am: I never wanted the night to end. I wanted to ride late at night forever.

2:35am: The silence was so beautiful. We would be quiet for short bits. I liked the pictures my mind created during that time.

2:40am: I wished I had his time stopping watch. I always wish I did.

2:45am: We started the ride home. My breathing got pretty rough. Cold air always hurts my lungs. But it was so worth it.

3:00am: We put the bikes away and crawled back into bed. I loved the fort so much..

3:10am: You fell asleep.

3:15am: The moon was higher in the sky. It was clear and white and full.  I could see it perfectly. Peeking through the trees. I fell asleep slowly. Loved it all.

I gulp down an Energy-Booster-X,
blue and sour.
Siri turns on Radiohead,
15 Step.

I step up to the pyramid of treadmills,
bouncing and salty.
Surrounded by Greek gods,
Beta, Alpha Gam, Pike.

I motivate myself by my surroundings,
bulging and ****.
Cardio first and then core,
2 miles, 200 crunches.

I connect my sweat in a line down my shirt,
blotchy and stagnant.
Everyone stretches in the end,
Thighs, biceps, pecs aflame.

I will not stop until I am perfection,
beautiful and sculpted.
Alarm set again,
For 6:30am, 7:30pm

7:30pm - I am crying. Wars are raging. Demons are coming. My soul is dying.

8:30pm - Try to resist a knife that sits. Pick up the phone, just so alone. Try to resist the urge that pursists.

9:30pm - Urges pursist, I finally cave in. Marks on my skin, wage a war thats within. Spirits are fighting, demons are crying. A soul is dying. Tempers are rising.

10:30pm - My heart is breaking. My temper is flaring. My thoughts are rising. A God I'm denying. I'm lost, chained, and bound. I'm tired of fighting.

11:30pm - Alone in night, along in day. My friends seem to walk away. Still I am trying. Is there any reason to living?

12:30am - Sleeping comes naught to that who is crying. A God who has ceased caring. Is there any life worth giving?

1:30am - Trying to write to someone so dear, but words alas, won't come near. I cry out for help, hoping a God will hear. Hoping someone might just be there.

2:30am - I walk to the garage, a shotgun awaits. I pick up the tool, to send me to my death. I look for the bullets, none can I find. I go to the house, to look for a knife.

3:30am - I pick up a knife, to hold to my neck. I think back on the past nine years of my life. The rediculing, the name calling, the moving, the drinking, the hell that's broke loss must come to an end.
I think of a friend. Will she miss me, I wonder. I think to a dance that had not long past. A friend... I think naught, an older sister. I remember the song that she played for my ears.
I remember my mentor, the one who discovered. I remember her efforts to tell me they cared. I remembered her words that told me she would always be there.
I thought yet again to a friend who long past. I thought to her last words to my ear. "You're loved, don't forget it. Even if I'm not here."
I thought to years long past. When I layed in the grass, my brothers at hand. I told them I was running. His response, "No, don't go. I love you to much for that. I need you to pick on."

3:45am - I put down my knife. I go to my room. I continue to cry. I may not be happy, but my life I must live. My demons then flee, but my chains still bind me. An angel protects me, of this I am sure. To sleep I must drift, I'll wake in the morn.

120715 #4:30PM

Just a thought,
To where everything’s ******,
Eyes in leer – flameless –
You are Beauty.

Open eyes, open skies
Open realm, open lies.
White as snow, I was
You’re the apple in spells.
As I lived, I have died too.

With rustic munitions,
You gashed my heart out.
With your circles in hoax,
You murdered me.

A sunless morning,
A moonless night,
An air so humid,
An unsalted oceans.
For in time so impeccable,
Befuddling in misdemeanors,
You’re the Beauty who’s a Beast.

Just in time,
**Forgiveness is an erudite.

The smoke stacks that line the waterfront be like giant joints puffing thoughts of her into air embalmed by hundreds of rainy days
That slow burn, against the icy bay and the barges that carry their loads through them
This corner of the world gets six hours of daylight, tops
Greys seared by neon, smoke and clouds and fog produced as one
continuous substance
There's a pleasant blurryness here
floating amid the buoys and the docked ferryboats,
In the way the monorails glide above toward a 1960s dream of the space age through an Amazonian jungle of glass and cranes
in harmony with the clouds sailing overhead
Here is where you go to let off steam deferred, where you ride trains through a kind of dark that arrives early, stays up late
as shadows wander across the gum covered walls of Post Alley
like ghosts made of espresso mist
freed from lit joints protruding from the skyline
to a high beneath starless heaven
Resting into the glow of that harbor
against thoughts of her that cloud the view of the sea.

It’s a cool, Georgia, Wednesday afternoon - not quite 80°f. The sky is clear, and the sun is dazzling against the cadet blue sky. Its reflection is multiplied a thousand small times, creating glittering, broken mirror glares that ripple, relentlessly, across the water’s blue surface.

On the lake, if you’re not wearing polarized sunglasses, then you’re going to suffer - no worries though, we have drawers full of them. We’re on my parents' Tiara-43 ski boat, at anchor in the sheltered-cove of an uninhabited island. It’s windy, Leong and I, bikinied and fresh from the water, race shivering for our giant, Turkish-linen beach-towels.

Charles, a large, redheaded, retired, NYC cop, (who’s been my full-time driver and escort since I was 9), is our boat-captain (I am not allowed to dock the boat). Charles, a chef of steaks nonpareil, is working the grill and unconsciously swaying to the music. The aroma is mouthwatering, and my tummy is growling with anticipation.

Ashe’s “Another man’s jeans” is bumpin’ from the stereo, and I can’t help but feel this somehow beats going to class. As we wrap up and settle in our lounges, a green and white ski boat careens into view, about a quarter mile from the cove entrance.

The sight of it makes me smile. It’s going so fast that it seems to hover over the surface of the lake, only jerking slightly as the boat lightly touches-off the water. It zeros in on us like a missile, its approach flat out - perhaps 60mph (52 knots).

I knew who it was instantly - Kimmy - of course. I look at my watch - 3:30pm - she got out of school at 2:15 and must have made a hot bee-line for us using “find my friends” GPS telemetry to uncover our hidden cove location.

As the boat edges the cove lip, Kim cuts power - the boat heaves as it settles into the water and quickly decelerates. Charles, anticipating the approaching wake, secures things (spices and utensils) in the galley area. When the boat’s closer, I can see that Bili’s onboard too.

Kim and Bili are my two homie BFFs. They’ll graduate high school in 2 weeks. Kim is a small, pretty Asian American bound for Brown University, to study public policy in the fall. Bili is a tall, gorgeous, chocolate-brown Nubian princess who’ll attend the University of California, at Berkeley to study “financial engineering” - whatever that is.

When Kim’s boat is about 80 feet from us, Kim and Bili jump on deck, water-ready in bathing suits. Each girl, used to the boating-life, tosses an anchor - one to port, one starboard, and not bothering to look back, dive off the bow and begin swimming toward us.

Kim’s boat, which briefly seemed intent on catching them, jerks to a stop, like a wild thing suddenly restrained, as anchor lines catch.

When Kim and Bili draw along aside, they reach up with clasped hands which Charles uses, like a handle, to smoothly hoist them one-handed, as if they were weightless, in turn, from the water with long mastered ease - presenting them to me for squealing embrace.

As I excitedly introduce them to Leong - summer has officially begun.

Sophomore year.
Spring break.
Crying.
Why can’t I stop?
Just stop it, ******* it!
You’re being pathetic.

Ding Ding
It’s a text.
“Hey! You free tonight?”
I didn’t think he’d text me.
I can’t.
It’d be wrong.
“Totally. What’d you have in mind?”
Oh no.
What’d I just do?
“I could pick you up around 10 and maybe just chill?”
10?
Pm?
Why so late?
“Yeah. Can’t wait!”

Tick
Tick
Tick
Tick

9pm:
What do I wear?
What do I wear?

9:45pm:
Put on eyeliner.
Put on mascara.
Put on lipstick.

10pm:
Okay.

10:05pm:
Where is he?

10:10pm:
Just wait.

10:15pm:
Should be here anytime now.

10:20pm:
Just a couple more minutes.

10:25pm:
Give him some more time.
I can’t expect him to be here right away.

10:30pm:
Is he coming?

10:35pm:
Did he forget?

10:45pm:
It was a joke.
Funny.

10:50pm:
Ding Ding
It’s a text.
“Hey, I’m here.”
Open my window.
Crawl out.
Ouch!
A nail  was sticking out.
Blood.
Blood is dripping down my leg.
It's okay.
He's here.
He's here.

What am I doing?
"Hey, you look nice."
He thinks I look nice.
"Thanks."
We drive.
And drive.
And drive.
Where are we?
It’s dark.
So dark.
I hear crickets.
And his breathing.
His breathing.
His breathing.
His breathing.

What is this?
A shed.
Abandoned.
“Sit down.”
Where do I sit?
It’s so dark.
I can’t see.
Where are we?
Where am I?
Where am I?

His hand is on my thigh.
What’s he doing?
“You’re so beautiful.”
He can’t see me.
I can’t see him.
It’s so dark.
“Thanks.”
His hand is higher now.
I should’ve worn pants.
He’s taking off my underwear
My package bought *******.
What’s he doing?
What’s he doing?
What’s he doing!
Do I like it?
Is he happy?
I want him to be happy.
Just let him do it.

His breathing.
His breathing.
My breathing.

It’s gone.
My underwear.

Oh my god.
Just sit here.
It’s okay.
He’s here.
He’s not going to hurt me.
He can’t.
He won’t.
It’s okay.

He’s unzipping.
What’s he unzipping?
I can’t see.
His hands on my *******.
I don’t know what to feel.
What do I feel?
What should I feel?
What does he feel?

His hands on my bare legs.
I flinch.
“It’s okay.”
It’s okay.

It hurts.
It hurts.
It hurts.
Stop please.
Please stop.
I can’t take it.
I can’t take it.
Stop.
I want to be happy.
I just want to be happy.
I want him to be happy.
Just be happy.
Be happy.
Happy.
Is he happy?

Tick
Tick
Tick
*Tick

Today I woke up and told you I wanted to jump off a bridge and you said you would talk to me all day and call me as soon as you got home to make sure I was okay but at 11:19am you stopped texting me and I would've understood if it was because of class but school ended at 3:30pm and you didn't call me like you said you would and you didn't text me until 9:17pm and you were surprised when I said I was doing well and I guess what I'm trying to say is I thought I needed you to be there for me today but you weren't and I got out of bed and pulled myself together on my own and I made everything better on my own and you might need me but I sure as hell don't need you and I hope you hate that I can be happy without you I hope you wish you had held onto me tighter I hope you know I'm okay on my own I hope you know I don't need anyone

10:30pm
Weather’s colder than I thought
Where is my Über?

Dear Sandman,
All you had to do was bring the cat out of the bag, and the little girl would have known she would be kidnapped, and *****, she would have avoided going to the supermarket at 7: 30pm on Sunday and maybe one day, she would have been something in life. but you decided to keep that secret, and now that she's grown are you happy that she sleeps with every man she could find that gives her money she could feed with. Sandman, you knew, you knew that she was gonna meet that man who would steal her heart with all his help and aid, but at the end of the day, he would only give her ***/AIDS and that's how her story ends everyday taking meds, that she can't afford, so she decides to spread it and sleeps with every other man.

i am grateful for stretch denim on days
when
          **** it
is a fashion statement
for lavender laundry detergent
because that smell reminds me of the home i've built in my head
for tea at
2 a.m.
when all the things i've done race in my head
because the next morning, i usually get my **** together
for colds
because they make eating an entire roll of cinnamon buns
completely justifiable
for the mountains that surround me
for NPR and good, rated M fanfiction
for def poetry when i can't find the right words
for finding a pack of cigarettes when it is only
11:30pm on a thursday night
and i am well past drunk in a slightly damp armchair
for harry potter and neil gaiman
for when twenty dollars fills up my gas tank
for my grandma's potato salad and biscuits with honey
for feminist zines that make me want to smash the patriarchy
for burts bees chapstick and jasmine-green tea
for friends who let me cry on their
bedroom floors
for books that keep me entertained
(even if that means me crying in my bathtub while reading them)
for courtney love and joan jett because those *******
have ridden in my car with me over many
heart-breaks
for well-water and sulfate free red wine
for johnny cash and new orleans and whiskey
for salt-- because that **** can wash away anything
for farmer's markets and co-ops
for bottles of water  and for cookie dough
when my mouth
is the consistency of cotton  and my mind is a little bit gone
for warm days in January and cold days in September
for breakfast and for hikes that begin at five a.m.
for summer nights drunk on wine and a little too much fire
for friends who call me 'momma bear' and for friends that call me 'baby bird'
for poems that give you cold chills
and flowers stolen from my neighbor's yard
for skin that smells like the sun and sage
for beeswax candles
and the smell of clean laundry
for days when i wake up and realize
i could have died on a bathroom floor

Lisa and I were watching one of our favorite series last night, a Japanese manga called “The Way of the Househusband” and I could barely keep my eyes open. I went to bed at a decent hour (11:30) but when I got in bed, I couldn’t sleep, I just laid there. It was rude and caused me to oversleep.

I don’t mean to brag, but I can go from oversleeping, to bushed and showered in less than 15 minutes, I’m really a marvel of efficiency (with still wet hair), especially since we wear scrubs.
I grabbed my iPad, stuffed it in my rucksack, and hey, I was ready to go.

In the living room, it took me a moment to situate myself - it was a very noisy and disorienting environment - what with Lisa yelling at me for running late, but soon we were off.

Just a girl, her lemon ginger Kombucha, and her angry roommate, ready to face the world.

We stepped out into the morning and.. Ughh! I’d forgotten my AirPods. I double checked, not there.
Lisa gives me a threatening look. “PLEASE,” I begged, desperately, “MY AIRPODS!”
“OH, my GOD!” Lisa said, glancing, irritatedly at the Apple Watch I gave her for her birthday.

I ran up the stairs and was back in NO time, really, really ready to go.
Just a girl, her Kombucha, AirPods and angrier roommate, ready to face the world.

My sister’s apartment is about 7 walking minutes from the hospital. As we were walking, I had my AirPods in and was rolling with Kanye. I in NO way endorse his CrAzY. But If I start the day out, with “Through the Wire” and “Jesus walks,” I’m tweaked for whatever gamut Rebecca (my surgeon) has in store for me. I paused the slaps, momentarily, as we passed a herd of boys, but I was bouncing again in a blink.

Lisa and I are in the second week of our two-month, summer fellowships - shadowing surgeons (different surgeons) for “clinical experience.” The first thing I do every workday morning is bring Rebecca a large coffee (from the cafeteria). She comes in at 5:30am every morning of the week and leaves God-knows-when - certainly, well after we do at 4:30pm.

She spends the three hours before I come in, reviewing patient notes and surgical plans. I gently rapped on her open door. She doesn’t look up, but she knows it’s me.
“Good morning,” I whisper, Rebecca’s seated at her desk, working on her laptop. I set the coffee on her right side and after I remove the pre-existing empty cups, I hesitate.

“What’s up,” she says, leaning into her screen to check something as she keys to enlarge it.
“I have a small question,” I say, “Are we supposed to be filling out timecards?” She doesn’t say anything, continuing to examine the - whatever. After a few seconds, I added:
“Quinn said we have to fill out timecards.”

“Did he?” Rebacca asked, rhetorically, after a bit. She’d stopped studying the screen and gotten a faraway look. Then, after another moment, she said, “Well, bless his heart,” which made me chuckle, because we’re both southern girls and that’s shorthand for “f**k him.”

“Thank you.” she says (for the coffee). I’d been dismissed.
We have rounds in twenty minutes.

Aren’t all women moody
Or
At least we would like for you, men. to think we are, right?

I will be the first to admit it
I belong to that exclusive“Moody Club”

I’ll even elaborate
To help you men

My mood seems to change with the multi stages of the moon

The Full Moon:
I am a little off balance
Yet, I am full of life
During this phase,
I wouldn’t dare me if you are easily embarrassed

The Crescent Moon:
I cannot make up my mind.
I am half myself
I am half someone else, as well
You never know which one of me you are going to get
I may change on any given day
No one can be prepared for this type of stream
Not even me

The New Moon:
All goes dark in my life
I may even want to pick a fight
I might stomp my feet and pout
Yet, this is usually the time
I truly to find my light
And find I truly love myself

Then just like an endless wave
The cycle begins once again

7-23-2011 (Saturday 1:30pm) Lc

7:30PM, October 9, 2015, 65*F, 10mph breeze, 5% humidity (somehow 10% where I was sitting), 50.0001% chance of rain, dark, cold, late, loud...I think that's enough. Alright! Spoiler alert, Birkston High won the game. If you simply have ears you've known that for a while (many of us who were at the game don't). All the people in Grenfolkshire were there, so there were some empty bleachers, but the Student section was full and lively, and did I say loud, because LOUD....! My ears were ringing (at a B8 note, for the musically overcurious people) for three days straight. I think it was a healthcare tactic, dare I say it. All those figurehead townspeople were there as well, like Mayor Arnofold Plattersbury with his orange jumpsuit, waving a pompom in the air like he just didn't care. Really, he didn't-I got whacked in the head with it eleven times. Recently, after taking a recent poll on the recent event, it was found that only about 35% of people really knew what happened, a number that has declined, recently. This very well is contributed to 1.) most of the people are there for the free food and don't exactly major in football 2.) teenagers are highly social creatures 3.) a bunch of hands in the air and six foot tall mammoths standing on the bleachers will tend to block the view of the people who are five foot small. The freshmen had a real problem on their heads. Nevertheless, the Wildcats found themselves with the bell for another year, whether they knew it or not. The Panthers found themselves nose-in-the-dirt, tail-dragging, while we found ourselves filing out like a herd of wild penguins onto the field.

This morning I told myself,
I will write a poem today,
But I ended up just hanging out,
With my friend named procrastinate.

8:30am
I was awakened,
Rolled over and saw my notes,
Poetry?
Nah, not yet.

10:00am
Lounging around,
It’s my lazy day,
Poetry?
Nah, not yet.

11:30am
Just finished showering,
Poetic thoughts ran through my mind,
While the water ran through my hair,
But now that I’m out,
I’m busy,
Poetry?
Nah, not yet.

12:30pm
My dad made me listen,
To a sermon with him,
I almost wanted to write a poem,
But I was preoccupied with Dr. Thompson,
Poetry?
Nah, not yet.

1:45pm
Money feels good in my hands,
But first I gotta do all this addition,
Time cards ****,
Poetry?
Nah, not yet.

3:00pm
I haven’t eaten anything today,
I’m starving,
Maybe because my refrigerator is empty,
I haven’t gone shopping in four weeks,
I should pay the grocery store a visit,
Poetry?
Nah, not yet.

5:45pm
Tacos sound good,
I have no clue how to make them,
But I guess I’ll give it a shot,
Poetry?
Nah, not yet.

6:45pm
Dang, that tasted awesome,
I should probably make something
Gross so I don’t let these cooking skills
Get to my head,
Poetry?
Nah, not yet.

7:00pm
It feels so good to sit down,
My new favorite show, Falling skies,
Is awaiting me on amazon prime,
Poetry?
Nah, not yet.

11:00pm
Four episodes in,
I’m officially addicted,
But I’ll let my brother use the TV now,
While I pass out on the couch,
Poetry?
Nah, not yet.

11:15pm
Crap…
I was gonna write a poem today,
What the heck am I supposed to write about?
Nothing serious is on my mind,
Depression, abuse, peace and war?
The only peace I’m thinking about is sleep,
Poetry?
Nah, not yet.

11:17pm
I guess I’ll let my eyes open,
It might be time to write a poem,
Not sure what to write about,
I could write about writing a poem or whatever,
Poetry,
Yeah, maybe now.

11:30pm
I’m done,
Here’s your fricken poem, Matthew,
Can I go to bed now?

Who Am I?
A self-hating narcissist. A phony, a fake.
A lover who fights,
A an economist who reads and writes.

Who Am I?
I am the absolute value of all the positives and negatives adding together to an exact , specific, rounded to three decimal spaces point.
(Make sure you reduce all fractions.)
I am a racist revolutionary pacifist,
A sexist race-class-gender rights activist.
I am a bleached out blend of all the colors
that splatter onto pages, spreading around other people’s thoughts,
theories and theorems.
I am an organized mess, a planned out catastrophe waiting to unexpectedly happen one day or night at exactly 10:30pm, though in reality it’ll probably be more like 11:15.
I am the dates and times on a calendar from the wrong year, cut short but too long and exact,
too detailed for my or anyone else’s own good.
Too analytical, inquisitive, and apathetic.
Too bored, busy, moving and stagnant to be concerned with things like letters or stamps.
I am too many miles away for tears, the head will never make it to the heart.
And vise versa.

Who Am I?
I am the good girl I was meant to be, the female with the hair and the eye-lashes and the dresses and the make-up.
I am made-up.
I am a sheltered socialized conditioned natured-nurtured heterosexually-scaled heterosexist,
continually sexed and sexualizing and sexually exploiting my own ****** empowerment
at the price of our emotional liberation, properly appropriated of course.
I am a starved adult, a hungry child.
A learner who sometimes teaches.
A health-crazed American disaster straight from the fast-food factory line, extra large drink for an extra large waist-band and an extra-large expense account and an extra-large house and an extra-large scoop of emptiness.
I am a master of a few words and phrases I read in a book once.
Of a few ideas I read out of the yellow boxes on pages 510 and 526.

Who Am I?
What words thoughts actions books songs smells images define me?
Who defines me?
What boundaries confine me?

Or, more precisely, what am I?
I am the perfect collision of atoms and molecules into one blessed soul.
I am the singer/song-writer reading the books written in a language I wish I could speak.
I am the perfect puzzle piece to my own puzzle,
My own incompatible, annoying, over-analyzing jealous puzzle piece,
all jagged and torn.
I am my own best friend.
I am so sure of myself I may or may not have intentionally completely forgot what I was just talking about.
Did I just summarize the life-story the life work the life plans of myself or someone else?
What hypocritical overly critical actions did I commit today?

Who Am I?
I am you.

-

#1
*******, i am really drunk
accidentally slammed three beers
pretending that the neck of the bottle
was your lips

#2
part of me wanted to text you
staring up into the sky
praying that the stars would swallow me
and my fingers itched to type out
so many things that i would regret
in the morning

#3
and i imagined telling you
confessions of how i felt
and i imagined that little cursor
blinking back at me like so much
apathy and words swallowed
over and again

#4
and i have kissed
my fair share of people
with lips male and female
with faces smooth and some scruff
or a full beard that i envied
but girls have the softest lips
always have

#5
i wondered what it would be like
to kiss you then
holding your body to mine
hoping you would forgive the splits
in my lip that anxiety helped me put there

#6
a good describing word for how
i felt then with three beers and good food
making its home in my belly
would be “blissed”
i was blissed out on ***** and food
and my pining for you

#7
i am sober now
woke up earlier than i would have liked
but then again i fell asleep at 10:30pm

#8
and this thing i feel
it’s like a combination of regret
and disappointment in myself
for not just telling you how i feel
and for needing liquid courage
to get myself to that plateau
of spilling my guts or backing away

#9
and i have forgotten
what my favorite drink tastes like again
in favor of the words to describe
how kissing you for the first time
would surely feel

#10
and i have never felt fireworks
when kissing someone before
even the girl i thought i was gonna marry
and i’m not so young now
and a little bit more cynical
but i wanna feel those fireworks with you
and i still haven’t texted you
and i don’t know if i will
and i don’t know if i should
and i am sorry for being like this

I'm sure an abstract painter adores
the confusion of their
lovers.
Glass reflections on materials in a bedroom
E M P H A S I Z E
the EGOIST in every
sofa
and
actress
in a television set while it rains out
(creating pockets of water on the balcony)
Where is my foundation for times like these when
feet become LOUD ER in the daytime
and obstacles have grown their teeth?

Perhaps a dump truck full of nicely dressed mannequins
will finally be
ticketed
and my eyes
will see
as soft
as your
hair.

Quarry of bones in an office space
and the FORMAL TIE HAS DESTROYED ITSELF WITH
SOCIETAL EXPECTATIONS AGAIN
(LUCIDITY KEEPS INSANITY DISTRACTED)

Caffeinated Canadian Bohemian
daydream of firs showering adjacent
Manhattan batteries.
Tomorrow's rejections watch
bright and beautiful waves smile with false
inspiration
a n d a n o t h e r
concrete victim is created.

!MADNESS!
(the solar flare of the Neutral)
the ammunition in my coffee
and conversations blinking
LAUGHS          OUT
                           TO
                           THE
                           ABYSS
(gorgeous and hollow lineups in front of
a Vancouver bar 11:30pm)

Pale October energies and the
Dharma Radio
feathering my fantasies as this year reaches it's last quarter
CREATIVITY MEANDERING
NEAR NOTHING
anxiously I roll around on the mattress,
open window, listening in on the intricately staged
oblivion of trees
who've become infatuated
with coffins.

Gastown (as it appeared in my dreams)
has found it's dusk anthem!
Adriano Celantano's
"BUONA SERA SIGNORINA"
what a strange dream that was
the music was vivid to the point of
impossible recognition
and I'm awake and dizzy not from all that
but from love
(it's tilting my axis!)
Always has......

An untraceable eye
lingers in
malevolence to ALL city banks
where the late bop players
stand united and "free"
(Outside, by art on a wall with animals dancing in a hot air balloon, jealous of their own permanent state of painted euphoria)
Restaurants are consumed by silence
upon closing down,
but NOT the Fisgard streetcorner cafe
I frequent!
It's LOUD TRUTH and San Francisco weeps in
the decorated walls.....some far off dream of North Beach
Trieste evening with people who were once ALIVE!!
People that bleached
THE AMERICAN VISION
with sharpened language sleeker than
the polished jaw of Apollo.

Here I am again,
accepting the same sweeping misery
as those before me
(settled tombstones barely seen beneath a wild oak
while cars cry exhaust to beach-view apartments
and Winter's harsh wind drums against the window pane)
sure they were good people, but living plays no favorites.

I'm awake and dizzy!
forlorn with the morning.
Stars surrender to a sun
which often wonders
how we adapt to this asylum.
(Vanity makes me sleepy)

Warm in the delicate crimson light,
I lie in a temporary peace.
I am setting
as all else rises.

He is not yet gone
he lies sleeping
but I have planned
his death
for 2:30 pm

And I can not express my love
for him and have it understood
unless you have been through the same

Euthanasia is such a strange word for it
but at least it is light
at a time when one feels
so heavy

I accept the word for now
It draws less tears from these sore eyes
and makes the task easier
if that is possible
It is very  hard to ****
someone you love
It does not help to know
that is is for his own good
when it is not for my own good
But I have planned his death
for 2:30 pm

When he looks up at me
with those half blind eyes
I can't stop my tears
from soaking his fur
and I don't try
He deserves that much and more

A doctor will be present and
a good friend of mine will bury him
shortly after.

Prologue:

Good ol’ Phillip Riley. The reason I am restrained in handcuffs, struggling but not able to put up much of a fight, being carried away from my beautiful -was to be- home. The red and blue lights are splashing back from the wet asphalt onto my cold face. I can assume it will only get worse from here, but it was worth it. She should have never crossed our paths and I have now made sure she will forever regret her decision. The only thing to do now is try and convince the jury this was an innocent act of passion. We will see who’s side they are on, after they hear all of the gruesome facts. All in all, the punishment fits the crime, and I accept.

Chapter 1: Mayville

My name is Mayville Houston. I am a single woman in my early 30s, nothing special. I am a licensed market coordinator at a real estate firm. For those of you who do not know what that is, I handle all of the appointments and paperwork that has to do with putting a home on the market as well as taking the home through escrow when we find a buyer. I love my job and there is always something new every day, but there are parts of it that can be repetitive and difficult. All and all, it is an amazing job and it pays the bills, I am grateful.

I am a coordinator to two amazing agents who are top producers, and hit the ground running every year. Needless to say I have my hands full coordinating these two. It is a blessing and a curse. I am a top performer with the top performers, but a lot of the time my personal life is sacrificed for the customer. Give and take. I start work at 8, make my lunch at 12, finish the day, work out, meditate, journal, paint, and do the activities that keep me sane throughout the day. I love my little life and how hard i have worked to get here.

Although every day is different and interesting things arise, nothing was as interesting as the day Phillip Riley and his wife Amber Riley walked through our office doors. It was a Tuesday like any other, all of us, heads down in our cubicles focusing on our work. I was on my second Redbull of the day, kind of a fanatic for them at the time, i felt that they got me through the day. Of course it was just sugary carbs, but I would be the last person to admit that.

Philip and Amber Riley bursted through our doors around 3:30pm. They had an appointment with my agents regarding some gorgeous houses in the area of Orange County that had caught their eye. I heard them come in, and being my agent’s coordinator, I got up and greeted them kindly, welcoming them to our office and introducing myself as Mayville Houston, my agent’s coordinator who will be assisting with all appointments and paperwork as we take them through escrow. I explained to them how excited I was that my agent Mariela would be taking them to see potential future homes. Amber asked if I would be joining them. I respectfully said I had to stay here at the office and take care of other clients. I could have sworn I saw a flash of sadness in Phillip’s face when I said that, but i have always been one to imagine things. There is no way.

Mariela comes out of her office and introduces herself to Phillip and Amber. Everyone is excited to start phillip and amber’s journey of purchasing a home. I wish them luck and hurry back to my cubicle, but before doing so I hand them a business card, letting them know they can call, text or email me with any questions they had regarding their appointments and paperwork. Mariela, Phillip and Amber were on their way out of the door, and I scurried back to my cubicle, trying to ignore what just happened. I swear I felt electricity between myself and Phillip Riley, but I think all of this time spent in this cubicle has me imagining things that just are not true.

Chapter 2: Phillip

*******, did I just witness an angel walk into the same room as me? She is going to help my wife and I purchase a home in the suburbs?

This is crazy. I am 35, settling down with my gorgeous wife Amber. She has strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes, skin as fair as a cherub angel, and a smile that could knock you dead. We are newly weds, so happy to be too. We recently married last August, and when we started discussing a more permanent place, neither of us could be happier about the idea.

But that was before I saw her. Mayville Houston. Apparently Mayville is what they call a “coordinator” in the real estate world. She deals with all of our paperwork, appointments, and assisting us through escrow. I did not know what that job entailed until she told me. Until her soft, plump lips and perfect smile explained her role as her luscious, brown curls bounced off of her shoulder. She was wearing a navy pencil skirt with a matching blazer. I tried to imagine what ******* were wrapping her perfect bottom. Tight waist, fat ***, *******, gorgeous face, hair and smile. Needless to say, Mayville took my breath away. Our first meeting was with Mariela only, Mayville did not attend. I was a bit saddened to hear she wouldn’t be joining, but i understood. I am a good man, a hard worker, a loyal husband… well, I was, completely, before i saw her, before i knew i had to have her, before i would stop at nothing to get her.

I think Mayville is my true soulmate. That is what my heart is telling me, right now…


Chapter 3: Mayville

A chip, Wednesday afternoon in February. For some reason, winter in California starts late. I am digging away at work for my deals when our office door opens. Usually i wouldn’t spare a second glance, but I realize right away who it is.

Phillip Riley stands, waiting for a greeting by our door. I stand up and straighten my outfit. I wear the same pencil skirt matching blazer combo, but today’s color is black. I walk up to him and chirp a quiet “Hello, Mr. Riley.” He smiles and says “why hello Miss Houston”. My knees want to buckle at his voice. It is like caramel dripping down a sundae on a hot day. His pressed, white shirt with a bright blue tie to compliment his perfectly chiseled jawline with just the right amount of stubble. He is about 6’5”, and has grey pants and very shiny dress shoes to compliment his white shirt and jawline. His hair is ***** blonde, but starting to grey. There is just something about this ******* man.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Riley?” I say, putting more confidence in my voice. “Please, call me Phillip”, he says warmly. He then explains to me he is meeting my agent Mariela, they have an inspection today, an appointment to ensure the property is in good condition, and his wife couldn’t make it due to being stuck at work. I get a little excited when he mentions Amber is not here. “Wait right here”, I say cheerily. “I will get Mariela for you right away.” I rush down the hall to let Mariela know that Phillip is here. She gets up and walks toward her door. Right before she walks out of it, she looks me dead in the eye and says “I see the way you look at him. Just be careful. Marriages are nothing to get involved in.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze and walks out. I love Mariela. She has always been like a mother figure to me. But something about the way she says that makes me shudder. I follow behind her quickly, heading back to my cubicle but hopelessly wanting to see Phillip one more time.

I watch them walk out the door. Phillip thanks me again, flashes me a smile, and walks out the door.

I can’t be imagining this electricity I feel between us. But Mariela is right, marriages are nothing to get involved in…

Chapter 4: Phillip

Another appointment that does not include Mayville. I am starting to get irritated. But I understand, she has to stay in her office and tend to other clients, like me. Each one’s needs different than the last. But I am not sure any of them have the needs i have…

I need her. I need to feel her on me, pressed against me, i need to feel what it is like to be inside of her, to release myself inside of her. God, what is wrong with me? I am married to Amber! We were talking about kids the other day! What is this feeling that has come over me recently? I cannot be feeling this way about another woman when we are searching for a house together. Am i completely insane? I need to nip these feelings in the bud before anything can get out of control. They are completely out of nowhere anyway. So I can make them go away out of nowhere too.

Mariela and I finish up the inspection, and she takes me back to her office since i left my car there. I notice there are lights still on in the building, and there is a silver honda civic still in the parking lot. I do not know, but i am hoping this is Mayville's car. I just want to see her one more time, her perfect body, in that tight matching professional outfit. Her pencil skirts drive me absolutely insane. ****, my train of thought got too crazy again. I. Am. A. Married. Man.

Mariella says goodnight to me. I say goodnight back and start to get in my car, and that is when I start to see her thick curls, flowing in the wind. I know I shouldn’t, but ****, I get back out of my car and walk towards her, while she is walking to her car.

“Hi Mr. Riley, er, I mean Phillip.” God, she is so ******* cute in addition to being so ******* ****.
“Hi, Mayville.” I say back. “You can call me May..” she says shyly. Why is she so cute?
“Okay, May. So what are your plans for this evening?” Innocent, but poking. “I was just going to head home… maybe have a glass of whiskey and binge some shows..” she says. “How about coming with me to the bar down the street?” I say, a bit more excited than I meant to.
I can see in her eyes she is unsure, but she nods silently. I motion for her to get in my car, and we ride together in silence to the bar about 5 minutes from her office. We get out of my car and I notice both of us fixing our attire. Curious, how both of us care how we look to one another tonight. I motion for her to walk in front of me as we walk to the front door of the bar. I open the door for her and tell the waitress we would like a table for 2. As we wiggle into our booth, our hands touch and it is hotter than a burning star. I know we both feel this, we have to. It is only a matter of time before I get my confirmation.

Chapter 5: Mayville

Oh my god. I cannot believe i am at a bar with a client. A client who I am assisting him and his wife in buying a home, mind you. He asks me what I would like. I shyly say “an old fashioned.” He grins from ear to ear and tells me that is his drink of choice as well. Am I imagining all of this? I already feel dizzy and we haven’t even gotten our drinks yet. The golden liquid with a slice of an orange peel arrives in front of us. We do a gentle cheers and I **** down half of my drink. Not only am I nervous but this week has been particularly tough and an old fashioned sounded like the best thing on earth at the moment. He says “eager, are we?” with that buttery voice that could melt a thousand candles at the same time. I smile nervously and just say “sorry, stressful week.” He knocks back half of his drink as well and just smiles at me. As if this man could get any sexier, *******. I smile and take another sip of my drink. I can’t help myself, I let myself melt in front of this man. I know he is married and nothing can happen between us, but something about him makes me feel safe enough to let my guard down. A warm home, in a winter storm,

We both have 3 drinks each. Cheeks burning red, I start to regret my decision a bit. I should not be out with a married man on a weekday. Truly, I can’t help myself at this point. We are both giggling about things each other has said. I smile, he smiles back. My hazel eyes glimmer with interest, hope, lust.

He pays the bill and we start walking out of the bar. I stumble once and he catches me. Even his touch is as soft as an angel. He leads me into his car, but instead of helping me into the front, he helps me into the back. I slowly ask “what are you doing?” He just shushes me and gets in the back too, on the opposite side of me. Once we are both inside of his car, he clicks the lock button, and puts up his front window shade.

I start to panic. What is happening? I cannot be doing this with a married man. What am I doing? What is he doing? What is going on?

As if he senses my panic, he grabs my face gently with both of his hands. He asks me gently to look at him, and i have no other choice, so I do. “It’s okay, I want this”, is all he says, before I see him lean forward to me and lets his lips touch mine. I feel his tongue part my lips and my eyes roll to the back of my head. He tastes like heaven and I can’t believe this is happening. Suddenly I am more confident than I have ever been. I am pulling up my skirt and I am unbuckling his belt and undoing the button on his pants at the same time. I feel the warm bulge in his boxers and I moan. I rub up against him once, showing him how much I want this too. He removes himself from his boxers and drags himself across my ****. I let out a wimper and he plunges his **** into my ***** full force. I let out a sharp gasp and he cups my mouth. I can’t believe this is happening. He feels so good, I could cry. I start to grind my hips down onto him. I see him release his arms and throw his head back, letting me know my movements are providing him what he wants. He places his hands on my hips as he thrusts into me as well. Each ****** and pull of his hands is harder than the last. I look into his glossy eyes and exhale deeply. He grabs my face, says “I’m..” and before he is finished, his tongue is back down my throat and I feel his hot liquid pumping inside of me. I bite his lip as I feel each pump inside of me. He grabs and ***** my ******* as we both finish climaxing together. His car windows are steamy, and we are both breathing hard. He looks up at me as I am still straddling him, and kisses me hard. He looks deep inside my eyes and says “now that i have had you, I won’t be able to stop.”

He drops me off at my car, and drives away. Leaving me shivering a bit in the night cold. But I don’t care. What I do care about is I just had crazy, beautiful *** with a man who i believe is my soulmate. I know he is married, but he is not married to the right woman…

Overcast sky
Cool, fall air
Few birds chirp
And the wind blows

A fish jumped from the water
just now
It created a ripple in the water
Not big, but effecting the lake, nonetheless

It's peaceful out here for a change

Another fish jumped


And another


It's rather quiet
other than some machine I hear in the distance
It's funny how something I can't see
Can interrupt my relaxation

A man in a boat just rode past in and out of my view
Leaving a very light wake in the water

I drag my cigar

The smoke floats around my head
Just to be pulled away by an invisible force

Gnats fly around me
And the man circled back

It’s Friday evening, (11-12-21) and Lisa’s Birthday. To celebrate, we’re going to see “A Night With Bill Maher” at the New York Comedy Festival (we’ll be socially distanced, in an opera box). He goes on at 8:30PM and my last class on Fridays ends at 05:25 (in New Haven CT). We had to hurry.

We have our bags and we’re hustling out the dorm gate loaded down like a couple of tourists. “We want to be on the island (NYC) by 7:30 for our dinner reservation.” Lisa said. I gave her a quizzical look, checking my watch, “It’s 6:18,” I said doubtfully, “we’ll NEVER..”  “Yeah, we will,” Lisa interrupts, “we’re taking a helicopter ride!” “Whaa.. REALLY??” I gasp. “Yeah,” Lisa grinned, “my dad arranged it, his treat.” “Thanks DAD,” I say, as we climb into our Uber.

An Uber off-loads us by a helicopter 15 minutes later (at Tweed Airport). I knew the blue and white grasshopper-looking whirligig didn’t have a mind - that it wasn’t capable of feelings or eagerness, but the blades were spinning and it seemed eager to escape earth - like a bug afraid of birds.

After we boarded, a guy in a yellow vest and helmet said - above the noise - “Buckle up!” and pointed to our seat belts. The “seat belt” was a harness that made an “X” across our bodies. Once the doors were closed it became surprisingly quiet. The cabin could hold four but we were alone, facing forward, Lisa seated next to me.

The earnest-looking pilot turned to us and said, “37 air minutes to the 34th street heliport,” but before he could close the little plexiglass door to our compartment, Lisa said, “Afghan takeoff please!” He nodded and closed the window, it got quieter still.

The pilot throttled up, the jet engines whined, the rotors became frantic and we lifted up into the air - just a few feet. I held tightly to my seat sitting perfectly still, as though the helicopter were a frightened animal I didn’t want to startle. “Relax,” Lisa said, with a BIG grin, “You’re going to LOVE this.” The helo rotated 180 degrees, “Woah,” I said.

“Wait for it,” she giggled. The back of the chopper suddenly rose, my body pressed forward, hard, against the harness. I went bug-eyed - about the time I thought the whole shaky contraption would roll forward end-over-end and we’d die in a fireball, we sprang into the air like a rollercoaster ride. When we lurched skyward, I had to fight the urge to hurl but Lisa roared with laughter.

After a moment we leveled out. “That wasn’t funny.” I said, still trembling and deadly serious. I opened a bottle of water, took a big swig and I felt myself relax a bit. “I almost threw up!” I wiped my hair away from my face. “I’m sorry,” Lisa said in a pouty, baby appeasing way. I glowered.

“Seriously,” she said, in a more reasonable voice, “I HAD to do it - I COULDN’T resist.” Unbuckling her harness she scooted over by me and took my hand. “It was a little mean, I know. I SWEAR, I’ll never, ever, EVER, trick you again.” She said, adding a girl scout salute that morphed into a pinky promise and we were suddenly whole again.

“I mean, it only works ONCE - and your FACE! - GOD!, I should have videoed that,” she laughed again - I just rolled my eyes and turned to look out into the darkness.

Maybe it was that take-off, but at first, all I could think of was falling to a watery death. I never get nervous on commercial flights, they feel like solid, white noise filled living rooms but this chopper was small and trembling, like an economy car or a hayride.

There was a TV screen that showed our altitude (9,000 feet and climbing) and airspeed indicator (140 knots) - I had to remind myself that trustworthy physics was at work somewhere behind this clippity-cloppity contraption our lives depended on.

The view of Long Island Sound, just after dusk, WAS amazing and soon I began to enjoy it. I counted 30 ships and barges lit up like birthday cakes against the watery darkness - and the approaching lights of New York City looked like a glittering tiara being worn by the horizon.

Ok, I thought, I have to write about this.

She was there.

7:25pm

I'm out with some friends., we find a spot on a hill, I know some of the people, I don't know some of the people.

I'm there having a good time. Trying to make conversation, not seeming like a complete loner loser.

I make due with what social skills I have left.

10:45pm

The fireworks have started, sparks of colour fill the sky and loud exploding noises fill my ears.

It's so dark out.
I watched the sunset not too long ago...

The sounds, the exploding bursts of shimmer and shine.

The fireworks are so vibrant, so alive...
I don't feel scared to die right now...

Maybe I should, but I don't.

11:30pm

I found my car and the parking lot is filled with people trying to get out. I grab a map and sit on the trunk of my car as I wait for an opening.

The night is calm if you don't pay mind to the drivers.
And I don't, I just stare at the map, searching for a way home.

12:30am

I made it home about 10 minutes ago and I'm not tired yet.
I make myself a cup of hot chocolate and sit at my computer watching episodes of an old sitcom from a time I didn't live in.

2:00am

I'm here.
Lying in my bed, next to nothing and no one.
It was only hours ago that I didn't feel so scared.
And now I'm here.

She wasn't there was she?
She couldn't have been...
If she was, I couldn't possibly have...

She was there.*

She was.

Our paths just missed each other.
Never crossing.

Just hours ago, I was watching fireworks.

And now I'm here.

Watching the darkness.