After drinks, the two of us walk down Columbus street looking for a back alley ******* Hanes knows about. It's 4pm - far past buffet hours - but happy hour is about to begin and that's what we're looking for. Hanes tells me the last time he was there, one of the dancers snuck up behind him while he was at the ATM and pressed the highest possible number on the screen, something like $500. He didn't have to spend it, but somehow, he did. He left there with a sharp distrust but newfound respect for the stripping world. Everyone's got to get there's somehow.
"Ten dollar cover to get in," the bouncer tells us.
"Good God," I mutter, "It's only four o'clock and you're charging us ten dollars?" I feel the gin tickling the back of my throat, bringing a tingling feeling of authority and righteousness. I know I'm wrong, I know I've overstepped by bounds and have no say in how much they think they should charge two men with no women at four o'clock in the afternoon...but I battle anyways. I must.
"Policy my friend," the bouncer returns, shaking his head in understanding, "I'll get in guys in for five."
"That'll work," Hanes says quickly, handing him a ten and brushing past him.
I pat him on the shoulder as we walk in, "You've done a good thing. A grand thing. A respectable thing." I'm drunk and anything that comes out of my mouth I think to be genius. How far I've gone into the rabbit hole is of no importance to me now. The only things that matters is that I'm there and that eventually, somehow, I'll get out.
I follow Hanes to the bar and put down twenty dollars to whatever he orders. Two Budweiser's. Seven dollars with tip. Pretty good. That excites me. There's something invigorating about cheap drinks in a place one would think to get shafted in. I tip an extra dollar and get eleven back. Hanes nods to an open table by the corner of the stage where there's no one but a single asian man and a plate of hot wings. A pint of ice water sits in front of him and he's all smiles. I don't know why Hanes thinks it's a good idea to party with this gentlemen, but I realize I've never actually understood ever what Hanes thinks is a good idea, so I follow suit. It turns out the asian man is a very fine man on his lunch break from the bank. He's had a very long day he says.
"The boss," he explains, "Is not a nice man. Selfish. Fat. White."
"Ah," I say, ******* back on the beer, "Never good." I watch a girl named Twinkle wrap her thighs around the stainless steel pole and twirl. Her hair is the color of fools gold and her eyes tell me she's been doing this a very long time. I ask the asian man his name.
"Bob," he says, biting into a wing, "You want one?" he asks Hanes.
Hanes waves it off and Bob offers me one. "Thank you, sir," I say.
"Call me Bob."
"Righty right," picking up wing, "Thank you Bob."
"They are very spicy, so watch yourself."
"I will."
Twinkle crawls over to us, her **** hanging from her chest, drooping slightly like honey would if you spooned it out of its jar. She wears a silver cross that dangles with her ****, reflecting the dark neon red and blue lights flashing, wavering above her. She can't be more than 25. I feel myself slipping into feelings of wonder and love, but know that is the trick of the club and how they get you to spend money. Quickly, I paint her in reality: a white t-shirt, some blue jeans, and old sneakers - she is painting her room. She looks lovelier doing this, grounded in something perhaps she loves, maybe even a passion.
She crawls up to me and turns around, thrusting her *** in my face. She bounces it up and down with the rhythm of the music, the heavy bass. I watch her tight flesh roll slightly like tanned waves of the ocean. Glitter floats from her skin as I get a whiff of strong perfume: rose petals and dry white wine. I like her taste and throw her a couple dollars. She bounces her *** a few more times, slower this time for me, then turns around to pick up the ones with her teeth. She is good and knows this.
"Wanna' dance?" she asks, winking at me.
"I would love one, but I promised myself I wouldn't," I say.
"And why's that?" She's dangling her legs over the side of the stage. Her knee caps are red and swollen from crawling on the hard wooden floor. I think they should give these girls knee pads or something, but realize that would really take away from the sexiness of it all. They would like naked electricians or plumbers for christ's sake.
"My father told me never to get a lap dance on an empty stomach."
"Your father," she smiles, "Is a very a smart and funny man."
"Wouldn't want all that blood rushing from my head to down there without any food in me."
She nods, "Could be very dangerous. You're funny. Let me know how you feel after you eat...I gotta' get back on."
"Will do," I tell her, leaving a few more dollars on the edge of the stage. I bend them into V's and place them upside down. She sees this and proceeds to bend over, picking them up one by one, showing me everything. She is snake charmer the way she moves her body, making one think it's all for them. I can see now why this place is so dangerous. She saunters off back up-stage, rocking her hips and her *** back and forth like she were trying to put a baby asleep in their cradle. She is very good and knows it.
"That was interesting," Hanes says. He picks up one of Bob's wings. Bob smiles and motions for us to take more.
"I got the endless deal!" he shouts. The music's gotten louder. "Only cost me $10! I got a beer with it too."
"That's a good deal!" Hanes shout back, "Thanks!"
He takes a couple more and places them on a napkin he got from somewhere. Bob motions for me to take a couple, so I do. The sauce is so hot it seems like its stinging my skin from the outside. My eyes even start to water. For a second, everything around me gets that watery sheen where all mixes together and nothing is hard lined. The hard and heavy bass mixes with my vision. In front of me, a blurred body hangs upside down from a golden holy pole. The image stirs some biblical images in my head, like an angel flying down to Earth or even Jesus being crucified, but upside, naked, and a woman. I put down the wings and furiously rub the sauce on my pant legs. If I were to get any of that poison into my eyes, I would be finished, I thought. Blinking hard three or four times, I let the tears stream down my face. Bob sees this and hands me a clean napkin from his table.
"I know," he says, "It is truly beautiful. Don't be afraid of your emotions. Express yourself. It's ok to cry."
"You're crying?!" Hanes laughs, "Why the hell you crying?"
"I'm not! This ****** sauce is so hot it's making my eyes water."
"These women are so beautiful, you're crying!" Hanes throws his head back, laughing. "I've never heard that one before. They'll give you a free lap dance for sure if you tell them that."
"Maybe the cook will," I say, wiping the tears from my eyes with Bob's clean napkin, "There. Back to normal."
"You OK?" Bob asks me? "You good."
"I'm good," I say.
A new dancer comes out on-stage. Bob seems to know her because he puts all of his wings on the table beside him and rubs any sauce that dripped off. He straightens his thin black tie and subtly smells both of his armpits. He definitely knows this one. She's a thick looking asian girl with a smooth, innocent face. Her hair is long, smooth, and black and it reflects the neon pinks and greens whirling above her. Bob leans over.
"She my favorite," he says.
"I can see that."
"Don't tell her nothing though."
"Why?" I smile.
"I don't want her to think I'm a creep."
"You're not a creep, Bob."
"Then what am I?" He asks, furrowing his brow.
"An admirer."

The cafe we meet at is one of those old meet new italian cafe's in North Beach: marble table tops with beige wicker chairs lined up outside the window; clean faced and freshly cut waitresses and waiters; salami or some kind of italian meat hanging by a thick white string from the ceiling, presenting itself to the streets like a ***** in Amsterdam; thick egg white ceramic coffee cups with thin saucers underneath them to catch whatever mistake may happen during conversation or solitude. Hanes was just sitting there. I ran into him. He never called me. His sunglasses are on - usual of him - and he seems startled when I sit down, as if he doesn't recognize me. I can see that it takes him a second to remember that he had called me at all, soon after making sense as to why I'm sitting there at all.
"Sup?" I ask him. There's a tiny glass filled with a frothy, light brown espresso inside. His right pointer finger is wrapped inside the small handle, resting there like a crow on a branch.
"Hey," he says, looking at me, unsure where his eyes actually are, "Thanks for coming to meet me."
"No problem," I say while trying to catch the waiter's eyes. The waiter's a tall, skinny, handsome italian guy in the typical pressed white button up, black dress pants, black apron, and jet black pointy shoes. Why his attire and build is of any interest at all makes me curious. Maybe I'm jealous? "No problem at all," I say again,"I was in the area."
"You should get the food here. It's good."
"I rarely hang out in North Beach, so I have no idea where to go. Have you been here before?"
"I've been to a couple of these places. Framed City Bookstore is right down the street."
"No ****?"
"Yeah," he nods, taking a sip of his espresso, "They're really nice in there."
"I always assumed they would be pretentious literary types. Never went in there on that assumption."
"Some of them are, but there are a few that just like books and write and hold no entitlement from that."
"That's nice. That's rare."
"Very rare," he says, taking another sip. He looks over his shoulder to try and catch the waiter too. "I want to get some food, too. Starving."
"He give you the menu's yet?" I ask, looking around and under the table.
"I told him to wait until you got here," he says, still looking for him.
We finally get the waiters attention. He apologizes and tells us they are very busy. The inside is nearly empty and we are the only two sitting outside. I'm unsure what he means. But it doesn't matter. We order the same thing, panini on sourdough bread with chicken breast, tomato, pesto, and arugula, with a few thin slices of prosciutto on the side. Hane orders a side salad and I order a pumpkin soup. It's cold outside - even with a coat - and the soup, I know, will do me good. I also get a regular drip coffee, which he brings immediately after we order. We exhale, glad to have gotten it out of the way. Then, there is that silence after one orders at a restaurant; that matter of getting down to business and discussing why we are even there in the first place. I wait for Hane to begin, but, because of his lapses in memory and general awkwardness, I start, watching him run his finger around the circular edge of his espresso glass as I do.
"Claire...," I pause, on the edge of stammering, "She left?"
Hane takes off his sunglasses at my question and sets them on the table. He looks down at his lap and blinks, rapidly a few times and says, "Yeah. She left. Back down south. LA or further I think. She said something about San Jose, but I have no idea why she would ever go there. She doesn't even like hockey. I've never heard her talk about it before."
I drink my coffee, looking over my glass into his eyes, acknowledging that I heard him, that I understand, but I say nothing. Everything all seems too sudden, too planned out, like Claire was scheming this from the beginning of everything. I was searching for someone to blame for everything, but then Hane starts again.
"If I think back on our problems, I can see why certain things that I did drove her away. There were a lot of things she did that forced me to get away, in my defense. But," he reaches for his sunglasses on the table and slips them back on, "To her defense, I had my days, ****, I had my weeks, where I'm sure I was pretty unbearable to be around."
"Why is that?" I ask him, "What were you doing that would upset her to the point of leaving for good?"
He turns his head toward me that was before gazing out on the street, "I never said she was leaving for good."
"Ok. What were you doing that would make her leave at all?"
"****, I don't know. I would go out. I would have fun. I would do things that I knew I wasn't supposed to really do, but I did them anyway."
I push my chair back a little to stretch out my legs, getting comfortable. Dark, grey clouds have gathered over head and everything is starting to look like a very depressing circus. I finish my coffee and can't wait to order another. It's an endless cup.
"I know what you mean," I agree. I feel him pulling away, defending himself of actions he's yet to specify to me, "Sometimes you just need to go out and get a little weird."
"Exactly. I was doing that. I was going out and getting a little weird, even though Claire wasn't always for it."
"That's norm..." I start, but he cuts me off.
"And you know what? Sometimes she would even want to come with me to wherever I was going, but I really didn't even want her coming along. I needed to do whatever I was going to do alone certain nights. Don't ask me why. Some nights I just needed for myself to get away from my life that I set up for myself to feel satisfied or fulfilled or..." Hane looks up into the clouds like he wants to float up into them, "Acceptable, if that's even the word."
I can see what he means and I can see why he feels the need to get out. Being in a relationship is hard. One builds up these walls, these boundaries, and then asked to follow the rules of said relationship according to one's social surroundings. Two people making an arrangement most likely based in feeling and sexuality, both of which, as Bukowski put it, Like a fog you see in the morning before you wake up, before the sun comes out. It's just there a little while and then it burns away. Nothing lasts and I'm amazed to see certain things last so long.
I give him a solicitous look as I let these thoughts ramble around in my head, but he doesn't see it. He's still looking up into the sky, looking for something to give him a reason to look other then the clouds. He could say just that and I would be fine with it, but he's looking for something. An answer, maybe. A solution. A color for a painting he's started a million times, but never finished.
"Who knows if we've ever really gotten love?" I ask profoundly, dripping in clichéd of philosophy.
"Who knows?..." he trails off.
Our food comes. The waiter puts it in front of us quickly, asks me if I want anymore coffee and I nod yes. Hane says he's alright for now, but maybe later.
"Who knows?" he laughs lightly, shaking and bowing his head. The waiter gives him a confused, awkward glance, then walks inside for my coffee. I feel bad for him for some reason. Waiters have it bad. All they get is **** all day and most of the time it's from crazies. I'll have to tip him an extra buck or two, I tell myself. Looking down at my sandwich, examining to make sure if its even what I ordered, I see Hanes already started to eat. I watch him as he peels the toasted bread away from the arugula, the tomato, the pesto, and chicken with the mozzarella clinging to it all like great white tentacles. He heavily salts and peppers the guts, plopping the bread back down and squishing it with the palm of his hand. All of this is done very quickly, very violently, and like he's done it many times before. I remember Hanes talking about how he would eat panini's everyday in college. Now I can see he wasn't lying.
I take a bite of my sandwich. It's good. Not great, but decent. Hanes has not said a word and is nearly done after my second bite. I take a sip of my coffee and then another bite. Hanes is done, looking around for the waiter, wondering where the hell he went off to this time.
"You getting another drink?" I ask.
"A drink drink," he says, "Like a ***** soda."
"I'm game. Ill get a beer."
"Ahh," he moans, "Get a drink drink."
"Like what?" I'm amused by his pushiness.
"Like a whiskey or a ***** or something."
"Why?"
"Beer is so boring. All of it tastes the same."
"You really think so?"
"Yeah, I do." He raises his hand, catching the waiters eye. He comes over and Hanes orders us two ***** sodas and two Pernoi's. Light beers. The waiter nods, takes Hanes plate, sees that I'm still eating, and leaves me to it. "There's your beer. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
"Good." Hanes coughs, smirks, lights a cigarette. He blows the smoke downhill, away from me.
"I'll get the beers, you get the vodkas."
"Good."
"It's only 2pm. We have all day," I say.
"Good and good," he says.

he had gray vans
and khakis
and a gray jumper
and brown eyes
and brown hair
and tan skin.
but all I wanted
to see on him
were those
dark blue hanes.

There's something about that itch
that you can't itch enough.
I feel like when I put on my
Adidas or Nike ankle socks
they just don't do the trick.

My Hanes crew length
feel so comfy on my itchy legs.
They keep my legs warm
when I spend eight hours
in the cold box stocking drink.

However when I wear those
high socks with shorts people stare.
I guess it looks goofy
with my pale skin
that people have to double take.

I bet they ask questions like
"Is that his leg or is he wearing socks?"
I smile though when they stare
because it makes feel noticed
and it reassures me that I'm here.

Grubby little hands
and sugar encrusted mouths
leaving chocolate hugs and kisses
on a white Hanes t-shirt
in a late summer sun

the man in the stained shirt laughs
telling stories until you laugh too, so hard
you roll in the grass with your brother
streaking your denim knees green

and you beg him to play with you
just one more game, please!
because he is the best at everything
as close as you can get to invincible

and when he picks you up at the end of the day
tickles you, herds you inside
you can smell the lawn mower grease
and the shellac from his shop
and the peppermint, always the peppermint,
from the gum that snaps! in his mouth

then before you know it
you’re sitting shotgun in his rusted pickup
the radio singing classic rock
like always

windows rolled down
hat perched back on his head
whistling through his teeth
like always

but you’re on a new road
and your boxes are packed in the back

and when he hugs you
you feel like the little girl
that you’re not anymore

and you’re not quite ready to say goodbye

Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was...
list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch,
dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston,
fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield,
haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson,
jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey,
lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand,
neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel -
i'll be an albino in Gujarat
if your play the sitar in a sari;
but your name sounds a bit migrant
revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus'
you seem to stand on -
you want the Mongolians resurrected?
i swear we were being ousted in line
of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon:
'olive skinned throughout the geography
and the unwelcome green men on
sponged-knickers creaming for an ******
a french dessert...'
yes pretty prior, you found home on a
continent when half of the european nations
didn't practice colonial antics -
i guess it's easier to pick on them.
but with a Patel surname you sound british
already, the great experiment worked
the anaesthetic of former colonialism
numbed via recreational Ketamine use
really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles -
i hate, i hate being conscripted into
post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed"
what a waste of the urban hubs of
Manchester or Liverpool -
where once artistic expression thrived -
i hate these post-colonial societies,
it's as if they were castrated en masse,
and they're wondering why no one has a permanent
suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet -
cinnamon up your ***, magician's trick with
space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick
but then the cough that blinds you sweetly -
i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to
listen to non-colonial nationalism -
a former migrant like pretty plated smell
olive skinned exploited inversion of angers
but dunked a footstep into a trip-up
with non-colonial nations -
a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel
is a name least likely associated with migration;
you teasing the beast out?

Membranes, wings and rains,
Think brains, pull up them Hanes,
Dress yourself in scarves and silks,
Drink some warm milk,
Remember… remember, cuz tonight you’re only feelin’ ill.

Broke out of that chrysalis, colors all a-flyin’,
S’a little intimidatin’, cuz it’s my first time bein’ this high ‘nd,
Little scared to take the plunge,
But I’ve got these wings so I must be invincible.

Let’s go let’s go let’s go even higher,
Fly cuz the tip of your wing’s on fire,
I’ll light you up my Moonlight Flower,
Dream and see it’s a good way to be,
Don’t worry about it, you know you can trust me.

Membranes, wings and rains,
Think brains, pull up them Hanes,
Dress yourself in scarves and silks,
Drink some warm milk,
Remember… remember, cuz tonight you’re only feelin’ ill.

dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect

no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap

me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants

which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then

morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing

over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall

with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:

forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles

blessed and cursed I thought!

too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it

and never let go


6/23/18

my body is simply not conventional
to the clothes I wear
there are dips and hills plastered on my figure
hanes doesn't take into account
my weight or my height
so pulling up the waistband
drills the cotton into my skin
with no room to breathe
but I've gotten comfortable

my body is not conventional
to the clothes I wear
the hunch back of Notre Dame meets
a protruding belly that widens my waist
when I wear shirts
fabric strangles my hips
displaying my grotesque body
but I've gotten comfortable

my body is not conventional
to the clothes I wear
aged binders do their best
pools of skin are dipping out the sides
my ribs ache and it's hard to ignore
when my body wails a cracking chaos
pain and overstimulation have crept into dreams
but I've gotten comfortable

my body is not conventional
to the clothes I wear
my body is not conventional
but it doesn't bring despair
my body is not conventional
and you can't begin to understand it
because it's too crippling to bear
it's staggering to peep into a mirror
seeing my being labeled unpleasant
with the unnerving urge to rip my eyes out
and splatter my blood on the glass
why don't I just break down and sit there
it's heavy to carry my weight and be hyperaware
it's easy to not care and maybe I'd take that route
but I'm not conventional
so I'm taking another way downstairs

Blue jeans worn for days,
slick with grease and filth
hung around the
hips of my step-father,
Caterpillar-brown boots
coated with dust
Hanes t-shirt hung loosely,
sweaty and smelly,
his big ears and balding
head that would
reflect the evil
light of his soul-less-ness,
blue eyes glazed over with
lust for helpless
12-year-old girls
and a smile that
could coat my heart with ice

Now he is old
Afraid of death,
My icy smile gloats.

Keep-A-Breast
                                 Apple
             OtterBox
                                                    Acu-Rite
    Dial                                                                Aquafresh
                        Oral-B
        ACT                                Garnier                                           Equate
    Hanes
On the Byas  
                            Rude
                                                        Toms
                                Dakine
                                                                 Acu-Vue  
Ponds                                                                                         Degree
  Preferred Stock    
                                    Mighty Wallet
                                              Hot Topic
                     Keurig                                        Dixie
                                                                                               Donut Shop
Domino

International Delight

                                 Peter Paul's
Best Yet                                                            Great Value

                                        Instagram
Facebook
        Snapchat                                           Yik Yak
                                                                              Forever 21

                Adventure Time
FSC                                     Bic                 The Poetry Foundation
             Staedtler                               Pilot                Sharpie            Microsoft
The Norton Anthology
  

                                                         Toshiba            Dell          Expo
Lipton  
Emerica
Anti Hero                                MOB                   Shorty's

               Bones               Thunder  
                                                                                        Shake Junt
                                                                                       Swingline
                                                                                      Pandora
Tommy Hilfiger

'                            Jill                Greg                 Ashley          Courtney

Judy
Bob
Janice                    
Shannon                                                                                   Kelly

Robert                                 Emily                  Jeremy      Darrin      Liza

Bill                Joe                         Dominic            Sean              James

Gav                             Jordan                   Tony              Eric


Christopher

Stuck in a room built by terrifying numbers – big numbers. The front door marked 130, 125, 120, 115… Mom’s hand reaches and pulls the door open. Twenty seven bones shut it tight.

2. Blueish glow from a sticker encrusted Dell. 500 sit ups documented on screen. Twenty four ribs transferred into megapixels. Hundreds, thousands, millions of skeleton sisters silently screaming. Intertwined by sharp edges.

3. One pile of 206 bones fast asleep under a magenta comforter. Three sets of arms pulling the bones back to Earth. Too many tears to keep track of.

4. Zero smiles at the breakfast table. There is a 92% chance of precipitation by the looks of moms quivering lip.

5. One fiery ball of hot gas. 206 bones soaking in the ultraviolet rays. Nineteen ribs poke through a white Hanes t-shirt. One wrist full of red shadows. Only one scar remains and I can’t even remember it.

6. 52 bones- three steps forward, two steps back. Forward, forward, keep moving forward.

7. 1 New York style cheesecake. 707 calories. 117 per slice.

The shower is her therapist -spilling tears all over her body, the way her heart aches to, but her eyes lack to in capacity. She combs her dark hair while she hums an old My Chemical Romance song,

When you go, don't ever think I'll make you try to stay

Gusts of wind come in through the window to remind the foggy glass that it will soon dissipate -that there is a world beyond the dewy structure. She massages the shampoo in her hair with enough strength to try to cleanse away the dirt, and thoughts.

in the morning I'll be off to find another way

She steps out of the shower and wipes off the fog of the double mirror above the sink and stares for a moment and proceeds to grab her tooth brush. Simply brushing her teeth.

The hurt isn't enough anymore to think of it as a metaphor, or anything other than what it is -it's not erasing the taste of him out of her mouth, it's not cleansing away the remains of broken innocence she gave him. That's all over now -he doesn't own that part of her anymore.

a good for nothing, I don't know.

Her face she washes with "Let The Good Times Roll," a face-wash that supposedly smells like caramelized popcorn -she hates popcorn, but she loves the smell of the Lush product; of course, she refuses that it smells anywhere similar to the corn-popped snack.

She throws on a maroon lace bralette and matching skivvies, and slips into an oversized Hanes white t-shirt that she probably purchased at the supermarket as a pack of five, and basks in the feeling of purity and freedom. She looks into the old-fashioned mirror that sits upon her dresser and puts on her retail store bought diamond earrings and $7 Walmart tree necklace and tries to give herself a smile. She's always been one with nature but like an autumn leaf, she drifted wherever the wind, or rather, he would take her. But he's gone now, and the necklace reminds her that she was always rooted -she just expanded her branches a little too far.

I don't love you like I did yesterday.

She takes a seat at her laptop that she worked hard to earn every penny for, and decides she's going to write about this girl she knows, this girl she is falling in love with again. Because even if nobody else does, she see's the beauty in herself -and she deserves to be written down.

And thats the origin of this poem.
NJ2016 [All Rights Reserved]

I still love you even though you dropped out of school
because your taste in music and the way you make everything feel like spring
outweighs any doubts I might have.
I still have a pair of your Hanes in my dresser drawer where I stored
you away for so long as well.
You have the upperhand.
You still have every bit of
emotional pain I've channeled into you over
the past year.
I still stuck by you through the neglect and ignorance, you still loved me
despite all the doors I broke off the hinges.
You saw through
all the anxiety attacks and outrages.
You survived me, you conquered me with love.
They say, it's just a phase,
just a phase.
But I could never walk away.

*******br>Why does it make us stupid, huh
I wish it was a formula
But nothing’s free
Most of the guys will agree with me
Y’all will say it’s a unicorn
Y’all will say it heals
The way that I feel
It’s difficult to conceal
It’s also a meal.

*******br>It confounds us, huh
Also called the puh
And called many names
I love it when y’all hide it behind your Hanes
Your Way
Was that too cliche?
I’ll stop
Hypnotize me while that puh pop
Make that thing drop
Ooh, she freaky
She can’t be stopped

*******br>What it feel like
I don’t know
I just seen a glimpse
Of a girl’s bush
That made me go limp
It **** sure wasn’t presidential
She thought her Puh was transcendental
Please
More like it should be confidential
She was a **
And she knew it
And that was the moment that I realized
*******br>Was a formula:
Wait until you’re ready for that curricula

Hanes moves to New York a week after our meeting. I ask him why on the phone when he tells me.
"To get away from all this normalcy. I can feel it leaking into my pores like a hot honey. It drags me down...weighs me down. ****, I've lived out there before, I could probably do it again."
I tell him he'll be fine. He doesn't say anything, but I hear him nod into the receiver, knowing full well we both know being fine is worse than being suicidal. At least with that, there's some risk.
We hang up and I look out the window of my apartment. It's trash day and the sun is high up in the sky, glowing hot like a new light bulb. There's not even a wind in the air. The trees that stand behind the apartments across the street are still. They bring back an image I'd seen of 50 places to visit before you die. Four trees cast in black shadows with a backdrop of hot orange rock. The sun looked to be burning the hillside with its heat. There was no life, just rock, sand, and near to death bushes that looked more like piles of ash than shrubs. Wonder was not the first feeling I had when I saw the photograph; it was abandon.
Overflowing trash cans and driverless cars are the only things on the streets. Everyones at work. Gotta' make money somehow. My desk is spotted with empty coffee cops and half empty red wine bottles. Folded pieces of paper with squiggly black pens marks are jammed in between books I've been telling myself to read for months. My gaze slides back to my window and I wonder where all the drivers are to these empty cars.  Somewhere else, I tell myself.

At the LAUNDROMAT / the sign, all in Caps.
Time : Midnight at half past

It’s like a home for my home-girl
And that Chicano Youngblood
Cutie with his family duties /
in the lateness of tonight, doing laundry:
Folding his brothers’ Johns
His Tia’s Lacey skimpy's
Crumpled like tiny ****** / scrunchies.
He’s Methodical, his eyes don’t waver
From his work,
Tries to not notice mines

I feel like I’m in a rap video,
My chick being clocked by dark eyed,
She does not notice,
& while at tumble dry
I can’t quit ogling at ****
Hanes-shirt white,
Mr. homegrown boy / guy.
Headphone Speakers have his ears
Texting back at spam / females,
Smartphone shiny thick ‘uns
While I watch salivarily, licking lips
**** so Fine!
My muffled salutations—hot ****!
He’s Adjusting himself front faced
my window to
Things that makes you go hmmm...
I feel I should somehow
Cater to these wiles inside
Aquiver / wrought / A high
Willowing / body admonishing
the vibrations of deep bass
like hard hip-hop rap beats from
Impalas riding way low,
Tinted windows vs. blind faith
Reality vs. perceptions from our
Fantasy / briefly close shuddering eyes
Awake not a dream spared.
(Hello there!)
Midnight at the Laudromat,
This is some reality at that!
Home grown boys
And drool drops / swimming in thought
From the corner of mouths
Words are *****
Past the late of moonless nights
In the neighborhood of Twain and
Corona beers (hold the virus)
We’re all marked by the streets
And the big empty inside us...
The hunger pangs,
Homeless outside chitchat on black
Skittering past
City Wildlife
At Midnight at the Laundromat.
Yes ****** &
       Too **** at That
(In all caps.)

Walmart's staff would go nuts if a concerned shopper built a substantial, yet manageable, fire out of Hanes ****** in the men's department. Grow up! Wake up! The Western World is transmogrifying into a technocratic collectivism that's determined to slaughter 90% of mankind by poisoning/irradiating the air, water, soil, food, medicines & serums! You analphabetical retardates who praise suicide, zombies, infanticide, vampires & Karl Marx make my *** tired (in addition to triggering my gag reflex)!

Through the window of my room
In my moms house
As the winter bloomed
I discovered inspiring beauty walking in the cold night
Every step you took my heart took two more towards you
Lucky my room is on the first floor cause I opened my window and jumped out at my hearts command
By this time the house on the corner cloaked your body but I could still feel the feelings you give off
I follow it
It's a frozen yogurt on a hot summer day
A Happy drunk
Sounds Beautiful music
A Dream come true
A Genuine laugh on a sad day
A I'm happy and I don't care what you say
Along those lines is how you make me feel
So I run
In my Hanes boxers
My white T
My bare feet
That run to you through the cold was so sweet
Cold was of the earth
What I was running to was bigger then heaven so I rose above for you
I hit the corner
Flicked off the house
Don't you ever hide my spouse again I say to it
You see she gave me the power to see the future when I looked at her eyes for those 3 seconds
I saw me and you laying down doing what couples do
My heart saw it
he believes it's true
So here I am standing in front of you
You and me me and you
Face to face
So now where do we go from here
I'm thinking forever
If you don't like the sound of that how about eternity
Love?
Happiness?
Friendship?
If not any of these things can we just talk occasionally
Life is a paradise around you
Face to face
Right now we have nothing but each other
The cold even wants us together it's freezing us in this moment
The world loves us
Face to face
What is time while our presence eats up space
Nothing is real but me and you when we're
Face to face