I keep my feelings on a leash,
locked in a cage like the perpetrators of crime.
Sometimes I take them out for walks
to test out their rarely used legs on the ground.
Only too reel them back in,
too scared to let them wander,
wander towards those who let theirs loose freely,
not caring where they step.
For I have learned that this only leads to hurt.
Stubbed toes on the curbsides called love.
Failed attempts at crossing the crosswalk,
into the depths of someones shallow, unforgiving arms.
Not paying attention to the Stop sign right next to them.
Over and over, I wish I would've noticed that sign sooner..
Before all the heartbreaks and fallen tears.
And that is why
the footwork of my heart, kept captive in the dark,
is sleeping in silence for perhaps eternity

Sometimes I get this sensation
as I take my bare feet
and place them
into tight enclosed shoes
to walk a cold grey
concrete path
still rigid to the shards of
   broken dreams
and promises
scattered along the middle,
the sounds of other people's footsteps
drown out my insecurities
and the
insignificance of
a person who feels small
as I try to grasp at merging
into the person full of
light and meaning
who has a spark in her eye,
     destined to do and make great changes
instead of falling into her own world
of isolation and despair
glancing around myself, wondering whether or not
I actually belong
I don't see my name on the board
with my peers
standing in the crowd,
waiting for the crosslight
to let me walk
walk with them to the other side, but
somewhere along the way
do I get lost
or am I just destined to walk
the wrong path
just so I could be with my peers
who are, of course,
the future
who will change the world
who will introduce a revelation that will change
the biased courses of humanity

but as for me

the deafening screams and words of
other people's
lives, moments, recollections
and livelihoods
cover up my hushed pathetic cries
and calls for help
as I question all that is taking place
in every which way I look
somewhere out there
a mom and her growing daughter
become closer
as my own mom falls apart on me
unknowingly ripping apart my right to establish
an identity of my own
somewhere out there
a dad can tell his children
about his life experiences
of the virtues and humility within that led to
their blessed ways of life now
as my own dad
who deserves, at least
everything the world has to give
works harder and harder every day
and every second
to continue our "blessed" ways of life now

but despite all of that

I am told No-- just focus on yourself
make sure you don't miss the crosswalk
make sure you make us proud--
but they don't see
they are what matters
when it comes to
a kid hoping to grow into a better person

there are colors;

some old and chipped
and falling apart,
on the frames of people's
subconscious
while fresh new colors shimmer
in the evening
starlight atop blue waters
just waiting to be discovered, like a
blind person experiencing sight for the first time

but how can I see the night stars
and fall in love with
the moon's beauty
when I'm too busy staring
at the sun
trying to make my way
up to the very top
running, taking jagged steps,
bent over all broken and
crawling

just hoping to be remembered

as a great sign of the times.

Yo Terry, you gone loco?
talking to yourself all the time now
oh, yeah?
is that a blue tooth or a blue ear?
is it surgically attached?
do you wear it to bed?
take it with you into the shower?
Man, you would never be so crazy
it can’t be you
it’s got to be your cell phone clone

hey lady, can you see that green arrow
it won’t last forever
what’s up…honk, honk
you’re on the phone?
we’re gonna to miss the left …turn
honey, you must be blind
how’d you get your license?
is that Lynne?
**** girl
it can’t be you
got to be your cell phone clone

A. K., another call?
and we’re supposed to be having a conversation
kickin’ it
now you’re text messaging under the table
and you think I don’t notice?
Dude, I’m not that stupid
and you, my brother, would never be that rude to me
it can’t be you
got to be your cell phone clone

yo Brenda, who you talking to out there?
oh…(whispered) cell phone clone

Leon, dude!
How many cell phones you need?
You’re talking on the one you got pressed onto your ear
There’s another on the table in front of you
Do you have one more?
You could be a juggler
Join the circus

Girlfriend, don’t you realize the light has changed
and you’re standing in the crosswalk in the middle of the street?
hang up the phone and step—yeah, you

Jeez...I…I see cell phone clones
They’re everywhere

I barely survived the Devils hour last night

There was music playing in my ears for awhile, a strange combination of tunes I became enveloped in

They cushioned my thoughts as I read, blocking out the birds that started chirping out of turn, and the crosswalk beeping every three minutes on the dot

The reason I almost didn't survive, however, had nothing to do with the music or the story or the crosswalk

I heard something coming for me

A shadow, but I heard it
It comes for me some nights
There's no pattern like the crosswalk signal
I've fought it before, so I am usually ready for it
But this time I forgot to bring my armor to the orchestra

I came exposed, in an oversized Sherpa coat
You see, I was cold
The armor would have chilled my skin
I'm so sorry I forgot it, my shield too
I was unprepared

The synesthetic darkness crept over me, like an invisible thunderstorm, or the lowest note on a bass guitar, or the smell of burnt toast

I could not fight it
I am sorry
I will try harder

Do not forget your armor, they said
We know certain things will always happen, they said  
One, is that the crosswalk signal will always beep every three minutes
The other, is that the darkness will come, and it will prey on those who are not prepared.

Who draws strength
from watching the passage of time
after dark
blur against the windows
of a moving train bound
for ends uncertain.

Who walks most balanced
on the beams of empty tracks.

In the shuffle of strangers
at a crosswalk, who finds
direction.

Who sees
clearer through rain.

Who finds their place
in the limbo of airport terminals,
on delayed flights
between chapters,
over open roads that branch
into tales of cities unseen,
in the turn of pages unwritten.

Who can keep track of time
during the improvised chaos of jazz,
catching notes scattered
in the winds of horns.

Who understands
that wind moves
fastest through dark places like tunnels,
during storms in late August.

Who finds their center
hurled in flight,
always coming and going.

“Big change, huh? Bet you could take some awesome shots here, Max.”

Max nodded, only hearing the last part of Warren’s sentence. Truth was, she was distracted by how beautiful this place was. If Max stood at the end of the street, she could get a killer depth-of-field perceptive image by aiming towards the long and skinny winding roads being enveloped by the building’s shadows. San Diego seemed to flourish with art and photography culture, and great opportune shots to shoot photographs.

“Earth to Max.” That seemed to knock her out of her thoughts. *****, focus. “Are you going to go swimming with me and Brooke?”

From the look on Brooke’s face, she was hoping to God that Max said no. Brooke is the relationship equivalent of a boa constrictor, and she wasn’t sure how this hasn’t dawned on Warren yet. “I’m not sure. Maybe. Let me unpack first.”

After Kate dropped out of going to San Diego Comic Con last second, Max was nearly going to join her when Warren practically begged her to come. Coming back to the present - equipped with her suitcase and messenger bag - Max lingered behind the couple by several feet. This was her way of trying to avoid the reminder that she was third-wheeling with a boy who used to have a very awkward crush on her and his salty girlfriend.

“I’m going to go down to the pool.” Warren said, sliding his key card into room #228, turning his head to face Max before opening the door. “Maximillian, are you sure you don’t want to join us?”

“Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

The moment the three of them walked in, Brooke and Warren beelined for the restroom with their bathing suits in hand. Once they came out, Warren had a blue and black plaid board short swimsuit on whereas Brooke came out with a highlighter-colored graffiti two piece.  “Alright, Mad Max. We’re out of this joint. Catch us at the pool if you need something or want to swim. If not, we’ll be back in an hour.”

Max waved them off, digging through her bag for that bathing suit. The crimson colored ruched one-piece vintage bathing suit sat abandoned at the bottom of her matching vermillion suitcase. Down below at the pool area, she could hear screaming and laughing and splashing of the pool water. Max got up from her suitcase, and opened the curtain enough to look out at the hotel pool. Several other people were down there, pushing the time limit very close to closing in an hour from now. Come on, Max, you’re really going to let your whole adventure be ruined by the usual high-strung Brooke?

**** it.

Max nabbed the swimsuit from the hidden corners of her suitcase, stripping herself down to pull the swimsuit onto her body. Once the swimsuit was on, she turned her waist feeling the soft fabric conform to her small but still vaguely prominent curves. Max can remember Mom always saying that she looked good in red, so she recommended a red one-piece since Max doesn't have the confidence to show her stomach to anyone.

Well, except her best friend Chloe. They used to take bubble baths together as toddlers so it used to be the most natural thing in the world to get dressed in the same room together. It must have been a better time, where there were no insecurities. Now Max has trouble calling her up without her finger freezing up as she attempts to type the very last digit of Chloe’s phone number into her phone.

As Max turned around in the mirror, she noticed how her lack of a rear end was a lot more distinguishable in red. Wowser, Max thought, this looks really good on me.

“Wowser.” Max said aloud to her reflection, and threw on a bathrobe.

It must have been ten minutes into Warren and Brooke swimming when Max opened up the pool gate, entering the vast perimeter of the pool area. There were significantly less people around the pool, where most of the people still inside the pool area were kids our age. “Max, you’re here!”  

This made two teenagers stop in their tracks as they were opening up the pool gate at the other end of the pool to leave. One of them whipped around so fast that it was a blur of blue hair.  “Wait…”

“Is that…Max Caulfield? It looks a lot like her.” Rachel asked to Chloe, who hung her jaw open in disbelief. No ******* way.

Furrowing her eyebrows, she watched Max drop the robe on a nearby chair. Like an awkward penguin, Chloe watched her best friend waddle up to the pool edge & cannonball into the waters below oblivious to the two girls standing at the gate watching her. “You’re going to wake up the neighbors and the owner of this hotel's parents forty miles away, Warren!”

“Do you want to go say hi to her?” Rachel asked Chloe.

As Chloe decided on actually going to surprise her, Max's friend said something that made Chloe change her mind in a split second.

“How would you know? Besides, you’ll eventually forgive me for that once you meet the entire cast of Star Trek tomorrow, Max.” Warren yelled at Max, and Chloe did a small grin as she turned away from her best friend, closing the gate on both of the girls.

“No. Guess the oblivious nerd is going to Comic Con too.“ Chloe took one last look at Max before going back inside the hotel with Rachel Amber at her tail. "Do you think she'll recognize me in cosplay?"

"Probably not. Unless I drop the bomb on you guys."

“Shhh. I don’t need you ruining my surprise party, *******.”

Max, Brooke, and Warren weren’t in the pool for long, since Warren bumped his head into the side of the pool while doing laps with Brooke. They had to get out, and put an ice pack on Warren’s sore bump on his head. “Now how am I going to cosplay the 11th Doctor? I need to gel my hair back, but I have this gargantuan bump on my head.”

“We’ll figure it out, sweetie.” Brooke said, and Max nearly gagged.

Max went back to the hotel room first, since being around Brooke made her want to strangle her.  This whole third-wheeling thing was annoying, and Max was regretting coming alone without Kate as her faithful chauffeur. Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to let that ruin her trip. She was here to have fun. And to take a bunch of photographs, of course.

The next morning around 4:00 am, Max was rudely awoken by Brooke who shoved her in her shoulder. “Get up, Max. We’re leaving in thirty minutes from now.”

Was that necessary? Max thought, crawling out of bed. From the bathroom, she could hear Warren fretting over the mammoth-sized bump on his head as both of them got dressed in their cosplay outfits. “Okay. That hurt a lot. Ow, ow, ow.”

“Oh, is there anything I can do to help?”

“Shut up, guys.”

Feeling slightly irritable from the loud ruckus Brooke and Warren were making in the other room Max rolled out of bed. She rustled through her suitcase for a pair of skinny jeans and a white t-shirt with the print of a doe on the front. Once she had her clothes, she stood up to walk into the restroom to change when she noticed the ending result of both of her companions.

Brooke’s multicolored dark hair was pulled down in waves framing the scarlet dress with a black belt fastened around her waist. As for Warren, his usually shaggy brown hair was gelled back for his cosplay. She had to admit, he looked handsome in his mahogany jacket, red bow-tie and matching suspenders, and the cotton collared button-up he wore underneath. For a cosplay of The Eleventh Doctor and Clara Oswald, it was quite impressive how close they looked like the actual characters of the TV show Doctor Who.

“Take a picture of us, Max!” Warren said in a chirpy voice.

“On it.”

Max pulled out her camera, and pointed it at the couple who held up peace signs together. Once the picture rolled out, the couple split apart to put on the finishing touches of their cosplay.  As for Max, all she had to do was throw on her clothes. There wasn’t a lot of work in dressing up like normal people. Besides, she’s never really been a fan of cosplay.

If you want to count dressing up as pirates with her best friend Chloe on Halloween five years ago cosplay, then yeah, Max has cosplayed several times before.

“Max, hurry your *** up. It looks like the amphitheater is getting crowded from here.” Warren yelled from outside the bathroom door towards Max, who sloppily tied her shoes.

As they exited out of the large double doors of the four star hotel, Warren and Brooke took the crosswalk, pointing out people cosplaying as characters from TV shows or video games. They were smiling and laughing, leaving Max to third-wheel again. Instead of lingering on it, Max put in her headphones and turned on Crosses by José González tuning them out.

“Where is the line?” Max asked Warren as they approached the crowded complex filled with restaurants on one side and the amphitheater on the other side. Tents were set up here, even.

“This is what I call natural selection. If you come prepared with prior knowledge on how this works, you can conquer this haphazard looking line.” Warren spread his arms out, motioning towards the crowd that was rapidly growing in size.

“Let’s go, Warren.”

“Wait!”

Like an octopus, Brooke latched onto Warren dragging him into the depths of the growing sea of people. After three painful hours of waiting, Max felt the crowd start to lighten up around her as excited but deafening chatter filled the air of the surrounding herd of people. Everyone was clamoring loudly, quickly rushing into the open doors with their San Diego Comic Con day pass thrown around their neck.

As soon as Max received hers, she eagerly threw her day pass around her neck. After buying a small breakfast sandwich from a booth, Max decided to start people watching. Some of the cosplays made her laugh like the Darth Vader cosplayer leading a conga line of faithful storm troopers, taking long confident strides.

Max took several photographs of several different cosplayers, ranging from Doctor Who, Scott Pilgrim vs The World, The X-Files, Breaking Bad, Undertale, Magic: The Gathering, and Family Guy. When it started getting crowded, she got up from her chair and entered the large archway into the convention center filled with colorful tents and cosplay galore.

Wielding her camera bag close to her waist, Max carefully maneuvered her way through the sea of people as she took a look at the booths. Suddenly, the throng of people became too much for Max. An elbow into Max's side pushed her into the left side of her waist, throwing her into a booth.

“Hey, are you alright?”

Max’s eyes glanced up towards a blue-haired girl cosplaying as Pris from Blade Runner, who had grabbed her waist. Something about her was actually kind of familiar, however, Max couldn’t tell. “You hit that table pretty hard.”

Max felt the warmth from her waist leave slowly. “This crowd is suffocating. I need a place to breathe around here. It’s too claustrophobic for my liking.”

“Are you alone or something? Because I could always use company in my tent. It gets hella boring inside this tent sometimes.”

“Do you say that to all of your customers?” Max asked, chuckling nervously at the blue-haired cosplayer’s comment.

“No.” She mumbled something under her breath that Max didn’t quite catch. “I mean – unless you’re uncomfortable with it. I’ve seen people faint multiple times from claustrophobia here.”

Since her head was bent down over a sketch she was doing in a journal, the only way Max could tell that the girl was blushing was by how red her ears had gotten. The realization that the girl became a nervous wreck all of a sudden after that comment had made Max’s day already.

“Maybe you’re right. I should just sit down. There’s no places to sit around here, though.”

The blue-haired girl patted the armrest of the empty fold-out chair behind the table. “This is Rachel’s chair, but Rachel is helping out with the convention rave for later. She’s on the committee or some ****.”

“Coworker?”

“And an annoyance at times.” Max went around the table, taking a seat in the chair the girl patted. It was itching at her brain that there is something about this girl that is so nostalgic.

Suddenly, a long brunette-haired girl billowed through the back curtains of the booth, where Max saw a tattoo chair in the back along with an extended table with clutter everywhere. “Chloe, do you have my phone? I really need it right now.”

Wait a second. “Chloe?”

“Great. Thanks a lot, Rachel. You ruined the element of surprise.”

"No ******* way!"

After Chloe handed the phone to Rachel, Max followed with her first impulse, throwing her arms around Chloe. Immediately, Chloe laughed as Max nuzzled her head into Chloe's shoulder blade. Max could feel the initial excitement pounding in her chest as Chloe tightened her grip on her as well. “Get a room, Chloe.”

“I will shove this combat boot so far up your *** –”

“Okay, I’m leaving. I need to call Frank and see when he was going to get here.” Rachel stated matter-of-factly, then added as she was leaving, “Hope you have a fun reunion.”

Once Chloe let go of Max, she held onto her arms staring into her face. “Wowser. This is crazy. You’re dressed as Pris from Blade Runner. That is definitely my ****.”

“I hope so. Someone asked me if I’m cosplaying Ramona Flowers from Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. Now I will accept that misunderstanding because Ramona Flowers is my woman crush.” Chloe glanced over at Max, changing the mood merely by narrowing her eyes at the brunette. “Alright, are you going to explain why you didn’t call or text me for five years?”

It was so sudden that Max suddenly felt inferior to Chloe. "I'm sorry. My parent's decision to suddenly move to Seattle wasn't my choice."

"That's not a good enough reason." Chloe attempted to change the tone of the mood lighter, since this wasn't exactly the place to discuss that. "So what's up with you? Living it up here in San Diego or something?"

"I - uh - moved back to Arcadia Bay. Two months ago."

"Without a phone call, telling me that you moved back." Chloe pressed her lips together, annoyed. "Nice one, Caulfield. That's just ******* peachy."

Max started to get a little irritated herself. "Look, I'm sorry. Can we just drop it?"

"I’m sorry, Max. I don’t want to be the ******* to ruin your day. In fact, this was the complete opposite impression I was going for. If you want to punch me for being such an annoying rat, go right on ahead.” Chloe pointed at the bicep of her left arm.

I shook my head – chuckling as Chloe kicked back her chair – propping her feet onto the table cluttered with various types of artwork. There was a dozen pieces of art here, but I noticed Chloe was really into abstract watercolor paintings. Mostly Chloe did sketches of characters from TV shows and video games and painted it in watercolor. One of the paintings in particular caught my eye.

Of course – like all of Chloe’s paintings – it was strikingly beautiful: In front of an obsidian background was a butterfly with eye-popping azure wings. One of the wings seemed to be slightly blurred to give more definition to the closest wing. “Wow, you’re a real artist.”

“I’m also a tattoo artist. If you want to get a tattoo, just hit your girl up. It’s on the house for you.” Chloe said, holding out her arm to show me. “Rachel helped me with both designs.”

Chloe had a beautiful sleeve on her arm and a tattoo on the top of her hand of a red chrysanthemum. Max traced the red ribbon detail on her arm tattoo with one finger, making Chloe shiver. “Dude, you can look, but you can’t touch the tats.”

“Sorry, it’s beautiful.”

“Hopefully it will still look beautiful when I look like the human equivalent of a raisin when I’m 80.” Chloe joked, holding out her arm in front of her face. “How about it, Max? Wanna get tatted up by your best friend Chloe? It might be a great experience for you, hippie. No gang related tattoos, though.”

“Yeah, because I’m totally a part of a gang.”

The smile that lit up Chloe’s face sent Max into a comatose state of delirium. Her eyes focused in on Chloe like a lens, taking shots in her head so she didn’t forget this moment with her best friend. For once, Max was having fun. “You’re still a ******* geek. That’s good news.”

“Always.”

Chloe shook her head before getting up. “Alright, so do you want a tattoo or not? This is your final offer, Max. Don’t let it go to waste.”

“I don’t know. You know I’m scared of needles.”

“Still?” Chloe grabbed Max’s shoulders. “Come o

I was thinking of old love
Dying love
Love-Hate
That space between the two
That seems to last the longest
In any relationship
That
Fighting for bed space
Saying all the wrong things
On purpose
Waking in disgust
Hating every word
Drunken night arguments
Being able to breathe
When she's away
Love
I would take that kind of love
Right now
Stopped at a crosswalk
On a cold November afternoon
It seemed like all the drivers
Had passengers
I looked over to my right
There was a white haired old guy
In ***** clothes
Eating a gas station hot dog
He reeked of mustard
He glared at me
I looked back at the traffic
And thought
Everybody's going nowhere
But nowhere is somewhere
I hope...

Walking away from you on this never ending crosswalk.

You're so far away from me now but I can feel your eyes burning,
watching me as I go.

I'm trying with all my might not to look back,
afraid I'd run back into your poisoning arms.

I keep walking,
with a heavy chest.

Knowing this is it.

With the sun on my face the shadows fall behind me.

And that's where you belong,
in the shadows of the past.

Stop before crossing the street,
look both ways for landmines,
my father on the battlefield
where this killing is justified,
from resident streets in ferguson
to gaza strip homicides,
My palms clasped tight in prayer,
from humanity's suicide

it hit me sharply
i cannot describe the faces i saw.
only that they were not human.
malicious, creeping beings.
and the worst part, i knew what they were,
as soon as i crossed into the street.
maybe it was the gait, the dark green hoods they crouched into.
but my legs wouldn't turn.

and then they slowly turned to me, cheeks twisted
into scarred smiles and monstrous looming eyes of dark intent.

my legs fell from under me, even as i tried to sprint from..
scrambling on the ground, i begged.
they were deadly silent. just shuffling

and i knew the whole **** time.

and i woke, my heart pounding.

She thought her outfit was beautiful when she put it on this morning.
And it was.
She donned the skirt with care,
Kitten heels polished and perfect.
Adjusting the turquoise blouse in the mirror,
She brushed her hair,
Put on her makeup,
And left her apartment early for a stroll.
She walked down the city street,
Head up, shoulders back,
A faint smile on her fresh face.
But as she neared the crosswalk,
She noticed the looks.
First came the looks from the men.
"Hey there, beautiful," one said.
"Nice ***," said another.
She ignored them all,
Choosing to cross to the other side of the street
So that they couldn't try to touch her.
Then came the looks from the women.
"****, she couldn't fit her fat *** into a minivan," said one.
"Who does that ***** think she is,
Walking around in that outfit?" Said another.
She ignored them all,
Choosing to keep her head down,
So that they wouldn't think she was promiscuous.
Finally, she noticed the looks from her co-workers.
"Does that violate dress code?" Asked one.
"If we had a dress code, it would," said another.
She ignored them all,
Choosing to head home early
So that they wouldn't laugh at her.
When she got back to the apartment,
She took off the skirt,
The polished kitten heels,
And the turquoise blouse.
She pulled on a pair of sweats,
And decided to watch Netflix instead of
Facing the cruel outside world.

orange bodies in the
yellow light in the afternoon
green thumbs in the garden
blue lips at night standing at the crosswalk

The city tosses, turns, and finally rises,
Surrendering to daylight and giving itself over
to the bustling movements of its citizens.
At the crosswalk, an old codger in  rags holds a panhandling sign,

And nearby a bearded hippy plays guitar.
The sound of beggars, musicians, bored businessmen,
And all the teaming masses drift through back alleys,
And float through the air like the heady perfume of car exhaust.

Each street, each block, each break in the never-ending flow of man’s own personal jungle.
Brings to mind stepping into a whole other world.
Here, in one such strange nexus, a building likened to a castle,
Stares across a narrow stretch of road at an abandoned building,
Cracked broken and peeling, tattooed with graffiti from a hundred vagabond artists.
It conjoins directly to a new building,
the fresh, well maintained walls of which offer striking contrast.

The confused, confounding nature of the true jungle is in this manmade facsimile
More well reflected than anywhere else in the world.
The muggy air rings with life, the heat is stifling,
And for all that it has a strong allure.
This city, and all cities.
For in every corner, at every street, life bleeds from a city.
It grows from the crack like a flowering ****,
And in truth,
Is a flower born in the streets of a city, atop the stem of a dandelion
Any less a flower than a rose from the heart in the woodland?
To me, that a flower could be so brazen, so proudly out of place,
Makes it all the more a thing of beauty.

I'm going out for a bit
No, just up the hill
I won't be long
Don't worry
I know it's dark out, but I'll be okay
I can see the house from there

Of course what I mean is

I need a break from my family
No, I'm just going somewhere quiet and dark
I'll take as long as I need
Leave me alone
Yeah, of course it's dark, that's why I like it. Just shut up and let me be
I'm not even far away, you're overreacting!

Six missed calls, but I have my earbuds in and my music blasting
The same song on repeat
I came to write poetry, maybe some song lyrics
This is the pen I stole from the library
I scribble with it but the stupid thing won't write
It's freaking Broken
Now I know how He felt
He stole my freaking heart just to find out that it was already Broken
I hate being Broken
All I wanted was to come here and write
But I get lost in the tune
I finish drinking my sugarless chai tea that I brought with me
Every time I tip my head back to take a sip, I see the stars better
Forget writing, for just half an hour
Forget life
Forget school, and work, and deadlines and everything
Just forget it all
Let it go
Look at the beautiful stars
Pulling up my knee high boots
I get over my paranoia of being watched, or stalked
Nobody is hiding behind the tree or in the shadows, waiting to pounce
No one is going to attack me while I'm sitting on this bench in the darkness in the late evening
I'll be fine
I watch the winter frost along the tips of the grass sparkle and shimmer
The stars are so magnificent
I put the same song on repeat
A song that doesn't tell a clear story, but I can relate to any situation
I've listened to it since elementary school
And here I am years and years later
It is still saving me from myself
I am feeling broken and hollow
I hate myself, I hate life, I hate hating my face, I hate feeling so worthless
But forget that for a minute
I stop checking the time and I ignore the strange looks I get from the residents in the windows of the houses surrounding this little park area watching me and wondering why I'm out here so late all alone
I'm ugly, I'm cold, I'm stupid, I'm a waste of space
I don't deserve life
I don't deserve to talk to anyone
I don't deserve to annoy anyone with my existence
I don't deserve respect, or love, or loyalty or happiness
I think this daily.
I feel bad about freaking cars having to go to the trouble of stopping for me even when I have right of way at a crosswalk
But I have on my black comfy leggings
My black tank top,
My black slouchy cardigan
My black knit tuque
My lips are still slightly stained a faded red from this morning
My eyes are heavily outlined in black
The black is comfy for me
It makes me feel safer
I blend in with the night
I feel happier when I put all the black I have inside, on the outside instead
It's always better to externalize the darkness
Somehow, even though it looks pretty depressing, it helps
I stand up and begin pacing
I turn up the music and inhale, deeply
The winter air bites at my lungs, stinging my skin with its bitter icy fingertips
I let the cold seep into my breathing
To freeze all that burning self-loathing
I force a smile on my face
Somehow, in this dim starlight
I can see Peace so much better than in the sunlight
I breathe so deeply in until I can't intake anymore air
My lungs are at their limit
The smile I'm forcing stops being forced as the winter air and the music's melody washes away all those horrible Broken feelings
A strange feeling overtakes me as I wander around, pacing in spirals with my head tipped upwards, my eyes dancing along the constellations and the shining moon
Maybe the moon isn't whole tonight, but it still shines bright
Maybe I'm not whole, but that doesn't mean I can't shine bright
My phone is ringing, but forget that.
I can't stop smiling, I'm walking around in curvy lines my eyes staring up in wonder, my arms slightly spread
I'm happy
Oh my gosh, I'm happy
I almost laugh, I can't believe the burden is lifted.
The car pulls up, and I realize I've been gone longer than I meant
They've been searching for me.
They're angry, but I'm inexplicably happy
I smile and nod, then saunter home, my music still playing
The Happy feeling doesn't linger too long, but even when it fades out,
For the rest of the night
I'm left in a neutral state
Not *my neutral state, which is just sadness,
But a happy person's neutral state
Truly not unhappy
Peace.
That's all I wanted.
And I got it, tonight.

Bent man, still proud,
Dark pants, brown coat,
Firm belt, white socks,
Lopped gait, slow,
Slow,
No cane, yet
Places need going
Even and especially by the
Old.
I stand a pedestrian witness
To his crosswalk constitutional
It matters not to him
that the red sign blinks
With the eyes of onlookers
Who follow the icons
of social construction.
I feel something like pride
For the figure still bent,
Crossing,
But the pride is not mine
So I release it with an exhale
And hope it reaches some kind corner
Of this difficult world.

Let's talk about this jazz club
that lives in my cellphone
in 1950 something with Chet Baker
back from the dead.
Let's toast to random notes taking flight
into the city in the middle of nothing nights we've known or been familiar with.
Let's shake hands cordially with the unfamiliar as in "deal", or "peace be with you" as if in church, tipping hats at that stranger passing by at the crosswalk some late evening in spring alongside dandelions sprouting forth from the pavement. Let's read between breaks of beats Kerouac must have hit in 1950 something San Francisco in yelps into the moonlit stages of the balcony of his boxcar boxcar boxcar gone by in a mad blur with whatever graffiti'd message of hope it bore on its sides. Let's hitch into the unknowingly infinite by way of the pen's mighty point. Let's unlearn the way syllable by syllable and demolish languaged signs like hurricane force candor blowing down fact-ory made terms and political decorum as smoke from the pages of their corporate handbook joins the Chet Baker solo note pilgrmage into the holy skyline. Let's move side by side unspoken as those jazz notes he forgot to play. Let's fill in those blanks with uninformed confidence beyond our abilities and grasp the unsayable names of our dreams remmebered. Let's see in seconds passing like bums inebriated with the holy moments gone too soon. Let's talk about nothing but this sacred second at hand on this clock unseen pointing overhead to the face of the moon gone full and hungry for attention. Let this happen only now. Only then will we talk about where it's going.

she sat next to me near the window
at starbucks on
41st and madison with a journal
covered in pastel lines and a black backdrop.
on the top center read “2011 was the year i screamed
**** life’ and ‘**** me”
as a running header. she ran
through my head, tilting this little snippet
of her brain
towards me and i swear that she looked at me
but all i could do was make the sign of the cross
hoping god heard my muffled voice, drowned out by
the sounds of yellow taxis on the crosswalk and
whispers of angels on the corners asking for my pockets.
i’ve never tasted sixty miles
per hour but i can imagine it’s the same
as when she writes “your shirt looks like my thoughts”;
i’m falling in love too easily.
i want to read every inch of your body; your arms
have the bible etched in your veins and a fifth of my poems
are scribbled on your aortas; my mother’s wedding vows
are in my right eye and my father,
my father just takes care of himself. i don’t think my eyesight is
getting any better, you slid the note two spaces down
and i think i shed a tear but i can’t remember whether
you were smiling for joy or the fact you missed my hand.

at the corner I hit both crosswalk buttons
and wait, eyes closed, to see if I can follow
the walk sign chirps like the blind men

I choose the first street that whistles to me
and walk to the opposite corner
the way the lights rotate, you would walk circles
if you followed the signs
eventually you must choose some arbitrary avenue
and either wait for it to welcome you
or test your luck in traffic

I choose left

then look up, hoping
to invent some new constellation
but the big parking lot halogens
bleed like blue inked milk into the sky
and the stars are specks, painted over

maybe for the better, I know too well
that I would see those galaxies spiraling
and dig dig dig into big big big questions
hitting all the major points
time and space and self and purpose,
purpose

and the mental ******* would be
a million endless tangents like a million little bits of magnesium
flashing in a firework, brighter than those parking lot halogens
but like every independence day
they flash and fizzle and then the sky is just smoky

and I start to feel small
so I walk into Big Lots to calm down

rummaging through the shelves,
not a single pad of paper outside of monthly planners
not a single blank sheet, not a single open page
not a single ******* one

no one wants to buy anything unless they know it has a purpose first

otherwise, it’ll end up in their desk,
blank and staring every time the drawer gets cracked open

and no one will have an answer for it

We met on the crosswalk
and headed for the shelters.

We stood opposite of one another
waiting for the bus to
take us away from each other.
That's friends-
                         In the city.

There I stood,
early in The fall,
Cornered on this:

The white Man walking
signals cross,
Whilst the red hand
Stops my steps.

This crosswalk
Calls up my thoughts,
In essence, a certain
Reminiscence,
A concerning
Recurring instance.

Was this not
How an empire rose?
Flourishing until,
Red, white, and bruised,
It must inevitably
collapse and corrode?

This is an ordinary corner,
But it talks
from the other side of the sidewalk,
I come across thoughts.

I thought, "holy **** man, look at yourself". The only change I ever witnessed for 3 years was the scrapings left ringing out on the bar rail. Always reaching out to a pocket for god and finding nothing. "I guess you can't refund the drinks, right?" She didn't laugh. I watched my circle get smaller, tired of the antics and my drinking became the **** of a joke. I watched my circle get smaller, my vision blurred like the future lining with a black viginette and with every drink I watched the bartender familiarize. Another? tap tap an empty bottle uses its manners and mine, with a painted smile. Until close she would become my therapist, and the salary was almost the same for the two after I left. After close the cooks offered sympathetic invites and lackluster conversations at the ******* next door. They laughed and drank and like ***** hawks watched their prey scale a poll like the fire they were fighting was inside. I saw no spark, no love given, no love received. I found it hard to love, when hating myself was the only thing I loved to feel. The grease stained fries were tickling the back of my throat on the last night I went. I found myself puking next to a coke head doing key bumps and I asked through hiccups "does the smell back here not bother you?" he said "what smell?". I wiped my mouth and stumbled home somehow. I kicked broken pieces of pavement and scoffed at the curb-sides hugging garbage. I realized through the streetlights that my shadow wasn't the only darkness following me at night. Out of cigarettes and out of my mind I resented this city for having so many bridges. The screaming trucks below gave some sort of comfort with my feet tangling with the breeze. The stretching hands from out-of-place highway trees grabbed at me and I felt the world rotating. The night that changed me, a three am crosswalk flashed its hand at me, but I kept walking.

In this place
The air is so dry that water sulks.
The sky is a viscous brown mosaic.
The sulfurous fumes of old suffering linger.

A woman stares as if trying to unsee creation.
Words on a man’s tongue sound
like rhythmic coughing.
At the only stoplight
the crosswalk sign flashes “Don’t waltz.”

Strangers recoil from me
as if from an embarrassing stain.

People stream to the town square
for some indecipherable ritual.
Probably a funeral for the sun
or a snake oil sale.

Welcome to humankind’s true garden.
Not paradise but a place of desolation,
and what comes after is not exile but striving
and getting the hell out.

So long, mom and dad.

Toad sand and frog pebbles,
warted rocks kicked and toed.

Tease the ocean with chocolate dipped feet,
spiced and salted teas.

Taper off mid-sentence, paragraphs tepid
long arms and zebra stripes, a crosswalk tepir.

Tocsin alarm clocks poison innocent bystander’s sleep,
slipping things in their drinks, filling their ears with toxin.

Tie a scarf around the forehead
of the middle child. Teach them beginning syllables of Thai.

Throes and spasms of overachievers
motivate for longer strides, faster throws.

Tense shoulder muscles
hide in sleeping bags, badly pitched tents.

Told injuries snuck in when the door opened,
we heard the miniature silver bells as they tolled.

Ticks count every second second, punctuated by tocks.
With each, a twitch, conscious nervous tics.

Titan tool boxes hold spare screws,
on Coeus’ threaded axis, we spin and tighten.

Terne sardine cans filled with mercury,
pollute our science tests, killing tern.

Tied red string around our pinkies so we don’t forget
when to go to the beach looking for clams at low tide.

Tacks pin talented teens to cork boards,
alongside instructions on regretting the harmonised sales tax.

Tire prints border the country,
left by jeeps that never tire.

Tails directing orchestras,
swarms of swan swim, tattling and telling tales.

Like you were a first trip to NYC,
or a perfect view of the cosmos
from that clearing on Sylvan Avenue,
I was agape and fawning while you sauntered
out from your double doors, to the end of your driveway,
to where I rocked on my heels eagerly
on Allen Dr. at 6:23

Come 7:15, we bedecked your body
with stripped and frayed Armani
in tribute to the Walkers we've seen;
cool-white fluorescence drew emphasis
on the harmony between your ivory simper
and each cobalt marble that rolled
and flicked beneath your tuckered eyelids
by some sort of beatnik artistry.

Frankly, my chest swelled with fever
when I noted the scrunch of your nose
askance to liquid-latex applications,
or the way black cherry sap wept
from the corners of your mouth
while dislodging the blood-capsule
in-between your molars
and your stately, hollow cheek at 7:50

And I noticed around 8:00,
when I had slowed you to a halt
near the crosswalk on Montauk
between Coastal and Le Soir
to fix the scar-tissue on your chin,
that if I ever knew there to be one,
you made a most stunning zombie
with my Tom & Jerry cap lining your scalp;

Which made the stain left by the makeup
worth the trade of my hat
in exchange for your company,
as we picked up a twelve-pack
at the 7-11 just down the street
before we returned to the party.

Without it
we are pedestrians

at a crosswalk with a redlight
that never changes

awash in petty laws
and ordinances

always afraid to risk
the tightrope of absurdity

but with it
the sky's the limit

and we can shed things
like old and tired cliches

the way we do clothes
that have long gone out of fashion

whit howland © 2021

I fell in love with you during the most magical time of the year
The leaves were changing
Everything tasted like pumpkin
Hoodies were being worn with jeans and leggings
Hot cider replaced water
and cool winds replaced the heat
I met you while walking down the street
Your brown hair was a mess from the wind
You were wearing a Metallica t-shirt with a hoodie
that looked like it had been with you through high school
You were carrying a gas station coffee that looked delicious
considering that was what my walk was for
You and I were waiting to use the same crosswalk
We each had a headphone in an ear that was blasting a Bruce Springsteen song
After noticing this you asked me what my favorite song by Bruce was
With blushing cheeks I answered "Tougher Than The Rest"
As you shook your head to move the hair from your face
you responded "Me too"
The crosswalk said walk so we walked
We ended up walking to Seattle's Best Coffee House
I got confused at the coffee you already had in your hand
You informed me that the cup was filled with change collected from weeks before
I invited you to have a coffee with me
While I treated us to coffee
you treated us to muffins you promised me were the best
As we took our seats in the coffee house
we both sipped our coffee
as the radio began to play the song "Tougher Than The Rest"

My coffee’s getting cold so I
Top it off
The steam ran away and it
Might get lost
The humans sit and stare while at
The crosswalk
I pass and stand awake and wait and
Hear them talk-
-ing about the meat that grows in
Livestock
I guess I thought that caffeine was a weakness

I hail a cab.  I’ve got to leave this part
of town, the Upper West,
dripping with fatty money.

At 97th I step in
and exhale, revived
by the sweating air in taxi cabs.

Through the window
I see
the imposing orange
of a tall
sewer ventilator,
steaming and
ignored—

At Columbus Circle,
a corner hot-
dog stand
is slow-
ly wheeled to
its moment-
ary place—

Broadway, with
one closed bank.
Empty, in back
the dusted black,
and iron beams?
Things lean
diagonal
against the walls,
a warning—

Faster, faster,
further south and somewhere
in the Village.
The rows,
rows and rows
of brownstone stoops:
quietly lined
along the street
patient, waiting,
delightfully clean—

The cab rolls to a stop.  I pay and step out to the street.
Near Greenwich Street, the crosswalk
supports some types trying so hard
not to be doing all that much
and wearing hip clothes.

I’ll stop mid-street, look up real high,
and take in the sunlight
that’s slamming against the pavement.

There is no snow, a left turn is a careening roll
7, 8, 9 times, all along the road
Until the carriage turns over and makes us again feel whole
We count the moments that it stays, before it encrypts code
Juxtapose, lizards and rats, seagulls and bats
The underlying message is psychological attack
And when she opened up her mouth she let out a hack
So devastating and depressing that she turned and spat

These old bones and these old dreams are a glimpse of what's passed
And though the skies are turning gray, the blues, in mind, will last
A silver lining is a metaphor, it's never really been
A line designed to separate the sadness from the sin
My friends tell me I am a crosswalk between truth and hate
But in the end the truth is those who despise can relate
Detesting the human race is something worth the time
That's taken to reflect on my stubborn, fizzled mind

A shotgun is all we need to see the light of day
And one bullet is all it takes for them to steal it away
So grab your jewelry and your cash and clip them to your vest
Because your family wants to know the score when you lay to rest
Faultless isn't really a word, thoughtless is a theology
You say spell cat, I say spell Keynesian economy
Aristotle spent years trying to prove epistemology
Existentialism wiped him out with one written dichotomy.

Waiting for my ride to get to the drop of dreams
And when I take just enough I will be caught up in screams
The world around is shaking violently and everything gleams
And the golden from the sunshine on the buildings are my streams
I want to lie in branches made of paper and long legs
Keeping our eyes open, we're all stepping over eggs
Is it any wonder why my strife and struggles bleed?
A warm body and an acid bath are all I truly need.

Went to the barber today,
          Just to feel a razor at my neck.
So to, skipped a crosswalk,
          Just to hear a horn.
I hopscotched the tracks,
          But the yard’s been empty years.
So then tried the bridge,
          When the wind’d never come.
Tomorrow’ll be lucky,
          That’s what I tell myself.

That’s what I tell myself.

Truisum of false hopes
Deep into the shallows
of the wormhole where
the dream of awakened
resistance to bind, not glue
the mortal mind
closer toward the
distant reality
of where the
heart broke
into a whole
same heart
but not for you

not that we
like
we hate
it is human
right
wrong
wasted text
breathing positive energy
exhale negative neo
see what we like
we love
it is robotic
left
corrected

imagine a scene
a toilet seat
falling
airplane function
malfunction
******* sidewalk
looking at sky
stupid, look
toilet seat
meets girls face
what we sow
we reaper
mission now
not mission impossible
walking on crosswalk now

love
oh my!
overly written
they say, deafness of their mind!
everyone thinking about
writing about it
being in love not of the heart, but deeper
further from all imagination
as pen touches paper
from far away
close
like our
love
one

come up stairs
stare way to heaven
hell at bottom
boots smokin'
life in a fastest lane
turtle speed
life
short
long enough
child in time
seeing the line
line between
good and bad
blind man

i stopped in the crosswalk to light a cigarette
then continued on my way down the street
the cars were of no threat to running me over;
they've been still in the streets all day, a traffic
blockade of holiday proportions

and as i stare through every windshield into the
warmth and luxury of the car's interior, I see nothing
but looks of misery, boredom, a sense of stagnant souls

and i began to laugh and smile like it's my ******* birthday
and i smoke my cigarette and become the only thing traveling
down this four way mall highway full of automobiles and people

they roll down their tinted windows and pelt me with their trash,
their negativity, their wasted times, their  immobility and weight
and i begin to laugh harder, my smile lines stretching towards heaven.

merry christmas, shoppers!
merry christmas, chumps!

I tried to pray once,
twice, a hundred times.
I was always scared of the person who would answer,
until they started answering.
It was usually my Ciocia, or my Dzia Dzia,
saying, 'hush hush little one",
or "be good to each other".
Most times, when I was lying balled up under the covers,
or hiding in my shower,
trying my hardest not to sob the walls out of existence,
those were the answers to my prayers.
The best advice usually came from myself,
telling me to take my time and be ridiculous,
even if just for the moment.
I didn't think I needed God to tell me that,
when I could tell  that to myself.

I tried to pray once,
twice, a thousand times.
I wasn't sure what to pray about.
I felt weird reliving my day in narrative form,
and I didn't want to ask for favors or forgiveness like Christmas gifts.
I'll find my own good community,
my own piece of mind.

I tried to pray once,
twice, a million times.
Each time, the answers wouldn't come, and I was left worshipping the ground I had walked on 10 minutes before;
the same amount of dried leaves and holey socks littering the crosswalk of my bedroom.

I tried to pray once,
to infinity. To a God without a name, without a face.
It always came back to my Ciocia, though.
Who lives in your white house, your whitewashed walls of glory and redemption?