Janie pushes the metal book cart back into its parking space in the Document Delivery Department of the St. Louis Public Library and hangs the last sticky note for October 30, 2012 on the wall by the head of the department’s closed door. She retightens her brown scarf under her chin, tucking the wispy hairs above her ears back into hiding. Having your hair begin to prematurely gray as a teenager has dramatic effects on a person. Her mother wore scarves around her wrists when Janie was growing up and when Janie begin to wear scarves to conceal her salt-and-pepper hair, her mother just smiled. The clock hanging on the wall above the children’s section reads 11:28pm.
Two more minutes.
She reorganized the pens and books on her desk and set the box reading NOTES onto the right corner or her desk with three blue pens and a stack of note cards. Her coworkers learned fast that Janie does not like to talk. She does not like eye contact. She loves the silence, and never ever to ask her about her hair. Her manager gave her the NOTES box after about a month of horrible miscommunication and everyday it fills with requests for books or tasks that Janie has to complete. She completes the tasks one by one, alone, in her back office in the Reference Department and hangs the completed sticky notes on the wall by her manager’s door. She works the night shift and locks the library up every night. When she’s alone she can talk out loud to herself and those are the only voices she cares to hear.
“Goodnight, books. Good night, rooms.” Janie shut the heavy wooden door to the library, placed the color-coded keys in the front right pocket of her jacket, and began her walk to the bus stop one corner away. She avoids the main road, taking her first right onto a side street that she knows would spit her out right beside the bus stop.
“Goodnight Taco Bell Sign. Goodnight Rite-Aide. Goodnight Westside Apartments. Goodnight Jack-o-Lantern smile.” She stopped in the middle of the alley and peered up at the Jack-o-Lantern grinning down at her from the third story window above. “Mother wouldn’t’ve liked your smirk, Jack. She would’ve slapped that **** right off your face.” Janie, satisfied the pumpkin was put in its rightful place, smiled as she trotted on.
“Mother carved smiles into her arms and that’s why Daddy left, it is, it is.” She kicked at a crushed Mountain Dew can as she remembered that night from years ago.

“Mommy?” Janie pushed opened the door to her mother’s bedroom and saw the moving-boxes torn open and all their contents scattered across the floor. She tiptoed through piles of scarves and silverware and corkscrews until she reached the bathroom in her mom’s room.
“Come to us like rain, oh lord, come and stay and sting a while more, oh lord…” her mother’s voice was slipping off the tiled bathroom walls. Janie pushed open the door and saw the blood for the first time pouring from her mother’s wrist. Her mother was naked and perched on the bathroom sink, singing to a red razor blade.
“Mommy?”
“GET OUT!” Her mother jumped from the counter and perched on all fours on the floor. She began to growl and speak in a voice too deep to be coming from her own throat.
“Mommy! It’s Janie!” She began to cry as her mother, still naked and bleeding, twisted and writhed onto her back and began to crawl towards the door that Janie hid behind.


“Thirty-Three percent, dear. Just a thirty-three percent chance.” She shivered trying to clear the last memory of her mother with the words that all the shrinks had echoed to her over the years. “Schizophrenia is directly related to genetics, little is known about the type of Schizophrenia mother was diagnosed with except that it is definitely passed on genetically. But, there is only a thirty-three percent chance you could have it, dear. Thirty-three percent.” The sound of the bus stop ahead reminds her it is time to be silent again.
“Disorganized Schizophrenia.” She mouthed to herself as she stepped back out onto the busy street from her alleyway. She tightened her scarf and saw the bus pull into the pickup spot. She walked forward to the bus, again immersed in her self-imposed silence.
Stepping out of the February cold, Janie removes her wool scarf as the bus doors close behind her.
“Where to baby?” The driver smiles a sticky smile. Her nametag reads, “Shannon” and has a decaying Hello-Kitty sticker in the bottom left corner.
“The Clinton Street drop.” She hands the driver her $2.50 fare and avoids the woman’s questioning eyes. The night drivers are always more talkative, curious.
“Your ticket hon.” She tears Janie a ticket stub. “Everything is pretty dead this late, I’ll have you there in ten minutes top.”
Janie begins to shuffle towards the seats, ignoring the woman.
“You mind if I crank up the music?” The bus driver asks, purple fingernails scratching in her thick blonde hair. “I need to keep my eyes open and blood flowing and music is my fire of choice you know?”
“Sure.” Janie shrugs her bag onto her shoulder and walks on before the woman can say anything else.
“Route E-2, homebound.” Shannon’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker.
She shuffles down the bus towards her usual seat; second from the back right side.  Shannon starts the bus rolling before she reaches her seat and Janie can hear her singing along to “Summertime” by Janis Joplin. The bus floor, today, is sticky because of the morning rain. Two years of riding public transportation has taught Janie that staring at the floor as she walks to her seat is better than the risk of making eye contact. The bus is usually empty this late but if there ever happens to be anyone else on, it’s better not to converse. Safer that way.
She plops into her seat filling the indention that ghosts of past passengers left. The seat is still warm and Janie squirms around until the stranger heat is forgotten. She tightens her scarf and sighs. The brown pleather seatback in front of her is peeling towards the top. Janie leans forward and idly picks at the scab-like dangles of brown as she watches the sodden city canvas roll past her out the foggy window. As she picks, the hole grows. She twists and digs her unpainted nails into the seat until her hands feel wet, warm. Looking down, they are covered in blood and mud.
“What. The. Actual. ****.” she whispers, wiping her hands on her pants leg. She cautiously picks off another piece of pleather and a trickle of deep red begins to run from the seat back, clumps of mud now falling onto her knees. A puddle of blood and mire splatter down her legs and pool around her feet as she picks at the seat. Her white tights are definitely beyond saving now, so she digs faster until her thumbnail catches on something, bends back, and cracks. She gasps and withdraws her shaking hand, watching her own blood mix with the clotting muck in the seat, half of her thumbnail completely stripped off.
Looking around, all else seems normal. The driver is now muttering along to some banter by Kanye West, completely unaware of Janie’s predicament. She closes her eyes.
This is a dream, this is a dream, wake the **** up.
She opens her eyes to see the pool of filth around her feet trickling towards the front of the bus. Panic sets in with a whisper, They’re going to think it was you, your fault, you’ll be thrown in jail.
“But I didn’t do this.” She lashes out to herself. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
Next stop, E-2. Shannon blares on the intercom.
“It’s just a dream, get your **** together, Janie.” She laughs at herself, manic.
Prove it! Her subconscious screams.
Convinced to end this moment she has to continue; Janie plunges her hand into the pleather grave one more time. Frantic and confused she laughs as she digs, spittle of muck splashing on her bus window.
Faster, faster, faster.
Deeper, deeper, deeper.
Realer, realer, real.
Wake up, now!
Then, as the bus slows, one last chuck of mud splatters to the floor and Janie sees a pink piece of her thumbnail stabbed into the white of a bone in the bottom of the seatback pit. Her white Ked’s were becoming so red they were almost black. She pulls her knees up to her chest and begins to rock back and forth. Clenching shut her eyes she begins to hum. Janie’s sweet soprano harmonizes with the buses deep droning purr, their wet melody interweaving with the driver’s alto and Lil Wayne’s screech made her feel dizzy as the bus turned right.
She take my money when I'm in need
Yeah she's a trifling friend indeed
Oh she's a gold digger way over town
That dig's on me
The bus slows to a stop and the bass is shaking. Janie is cold. She slowly peeks out of her right eye, expecting to be instantly immersed into the same dismal scene. The seatback is whole again. Releasing her knees, her feet fall back to the floor and her shaking fingers stroke the solid pleather.

“Ma’am? We’re at the Clinton Drop.”
Janie hurriedly picks up her bag and flees down the aisle to the bus doors.
“Everything alright, dear?” The bus driver asks, smiling.
“Fine, just fine.”
“You be safe out there tonight. The night is dark and only ghouls stroll the streets this late.”  Shannon laughed as Janie’s jaw dropped. “Happy Halloween, dear. It’s midnight, today is October 31st.”
The bus doors opened and a cold wind ****** the warm bot-air surrounding Janie into the streets. She begrudgingly followed, her mind spinning as she stepped onto the pavement. The doors slammed behind her and she turned to see Shannon pull out a tube of lipstick and smear it, red, across her cracked lips. Shannon made a duck-face in the mirror and reached down to crank up the music as loud as it would go. The bus exhaled and rolled forward, leaving Janie behind as it splashed through the potholes.
She surveys the surrounding midnight gloom and the street is quiet and dark. Even the stars are hidden behind swirling clouds. She begins to hum, hands in her pocket, and shuffle towards her apartment.
“Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, street.”
As she approaches her single-bedroom apartment, digging through her coat pocket for her keys, her thumb pulsates. She grasps the keys and pulls them out as she steps up to the apartment. Sticking the cold, silver key in the lock she looks down at her thumb and in the shadows of the porch sees half of the nail completely missing. She laughs as she pushes the door open to her bare apartment, light flooding out. Without any hesitation she closes the door behind her, sheds her clothes, and slips onto the mattress in the corner of the room gripping her thumb tight. She reaches out for the glass of milk on the floor beside her bed from the morning and it’s still cold. Nursing the milk, surrounded by blankets and solitude, she reminds herself,  “Only a thirty-three percent chance. A nice, small, round number. Small.”  
She sets down the empty glass and curls into the fetal position under the heavy blankets, pointer finger tracing circles on her thumb. Only when she has heated her blanket cocoon enough to feel safe does she remove her scarf and allow her thick white hair to fall around her face.
“Goodnight, room. Goodnight, mother,”

no novocaine, no experience
the nurse on break
tells me to "wait right there."
the big lights above the pleather chair
my pale skin illuminated and glowing
under rays of white white light -
and I'm tied down like a
banded submissive
to a blacker than black chair

it's only me and invisible monsters
in a game of
cat mouse tick tock
tick tock

sweating, I realize I must move
there's no other option for this lab rat
I feel like
All I've ever been, is here -
sprawled out in the open
hand choked of blood and oxygen

I cannot take this
   I cannot take this!

Something in my mind turns off
Something in my mind turns on

I chew the soft parts away easiest
it slides in my mouth
my teeth are cold and wet now
Chattering and lurching sounds
come from my mouth & teeth
as the splinters of bone
crackle away in my bite.
It took either a minute or a day
But it was over.

And so,
I left it there
tied to that black chair.

I opened the glass-paneled door with an exit 'bing',
and I was happy I never met the Doctor.

That tapestry,
Red, Black, Gold
A Celtic Circle--
silently bearing witness
to the proceedings
of that smoky room:

The aquariums--one with
the large eel who seemed
to barely fit the tank
that took up half the wall;
and the smaller, vibrantly
colored fish in the
aquarium with the eggshell
colored coral.

The remixed music played
at a comfortable volume,
by the DJ we knew
so well, together;
as many times
it hardly seemed like
he was working at all,
as he just sat down and
talked to us, for hours.

Looking through
those over-sized books of
old advertisements,
and explanations of
historical artwork;
discussing the contents
with strangers,
who became friends
in the process.

Smoke billowed, enveloping
the atmosphere and filling it
with the smell of many spice
racks, pleasantly rolled in a
shell of a soft breeze
flowing from the oscillating fan.

The smell of joy,
of a relaxed sense of mutual
understanding; that it was okay
not to say a word, because the
atmosphere did the talking
for us.

We just enjoyed sitting
on those red pleather couches
that your **** sank back into,
not allowing my feet to touch
the floor; so they often just
dangled, legs swinging
to the tempo of the music.

As I took a hit
of the hookah,
I manipulated the smoke
into O's, puckering
my lips, trying not
to laugh as you
gazed at me in a
shy sense of wonder.

That face always made you
want to kiss me.

Uhh,..Young Ston,..Uhh.
/(Ohh I3)..(want you2)..(just you2)..(Ohh I3)..I want you , just you/2
Just you..(Ohh I *3)..,(want you2)..(Just you2)..(Ohh,Yeah2)..(Just you2)..(I want you3)..
(Ohh I2)..Ohh Yeah..(I want you2)..Ohh,Yeah..(Just you2)..Ohh..(I want you5)..(just you3)..girl, Yeah..(I want you girl3)..(I want you2)..& just you girl, (I want you2)..Yeah & (only you girl..Yeah2)..

You so beautiful, you so fresh, you so cute girl, Uhh..that's why I only want you girl, yeah.. Only you girl, Yeah just you girl...Aye you give me a different special feeling that I never ever felt before I met you girl..a feeling in my spirit, mind & heart Yeah..(Like Ohh I3)..(want you3)..(Ohh Yeah2)..I'm really feeling you girl..girl you got me in my feelings baby, **** I might even shed a tear while I'm hitting it..like..(Thank God2)..(for you..2)(Ohh Yeah2)..Uhh,Aye

I wanna feel yo insides, baby yeah I wanna fill you inside up with my love..Yeah you a good girl you tighter than a waist trainer on a big girl, you don't even need one, even tho you hella thick girl..yeah you super thick girl like Amber Rose.. like (got ****2)..Yeah..your body (so right3)..its banging like Baghdad,.. Like (Ohh Yeah3)..(I want you3)..Uhh, Yeah..these other **'s stay bugging & running after me but..(Ohh I2)..(just want you2)..(Ohh Yeah3)..(Ohh I 3)..I want..(I want you, just you3)..you..Ohh Yeah..Uhh

So give me dat *** Babygirl Yeah,  don't make me ask baby..don't  make me beg & if you do make me then Imma just go harder while I'm in you & make it hurt even worser , Yeah you gonna be so soar Babygirl..like a..work out,Ohh Yeah...I'll help you exercise I'll be yo trainer..,(Ohh Yeah3)
Don't play wit me baby.., I said take this ****,babygirl you the only person I'll let in my lane..but I'm the only one thats  doing the driving..so  park that ***** up on my ****..I'll be your provider..

Imma beat that *** up Yeah..of course, Aye Imma put Dat ***** in a hearse, Yeah that's what Imma do..(Ohh Yeah3)..,yo ***** so good to me babygirl, so I had to dedicate this verse only to yo ***** yeah its so tight..Its so mean..its so sweet, Its so clean,like..(Ohh Yeah3)..Uhh..(I  want you3)..(Ohh Yeah3)..
Aye, Imma get you so high boo..(so high3)..like Ohh yeah..Ohh I, want you, Aye baby everytime, when I look (at you2)..I'm so grateful & thankful to have you, you a blessing to me Yeah girl.., So Imma bless you..(Fo life3)..(no lie3)
Ohh,(Yeah girl you so amazing2),

I wanna taste ya, I wanna take ya away girl, Away from (all the **** ****2)..that you (deal wit2) me Shawty, you ain't gonna remember any other man, that you ever had..**** em, forget baby real ****, leave them in the past..Uhh,
Noo I ain't desperate for you boo, but yeah, I do want you..(I want you2) & only you..Yeah I..(want you2)..Yeah..Uhh
I wanna eat yo *** up, just like a ice cream cone Babygirl,.. (Come on2)..Babygirl.. Imma throw some whip cream down on ya, & Imma go to work on that ****, forget them lips Babygirl,..Imma make you (tingle3)..Uhh,.Imma make you (sprinkle3)..Yeah..you best believe me girl, Yeah I'm so g girl, Imma King girl,yeah, you can be my queen girl,my queen (yeah2)..my gangsta boo..
Ayo,what up, What's good Gangsta Boo, Ayo,I need me a trill *** down chick like that dude, she get up on a track wit me & spit Dat real **** that **** a ***** **** , Yeah (that gangsta ****3)..mane..Yeah I need (a gangsta chick3)..Ohh Yeah..

(Ohh I 3)..want you, I want you,..(Ohh I2)..(want you2)..(Ohh I2)..want you,..(I want you3)..
(Ohh I5)..want you..(I want you3)..(Ohh I6)..want you, just you..(Ohh Yeah3)..Aye

You can twist my **** up, baby..girl come kick back relax &  chill with a ***** thats so unbelievable girl, Imma keep g & Imma keep it real with ya..Yeah, ain't nothing made up about me baby **** pleather, Im comparable to real leather, so expensive, but I'm giving you a special bargain, baby Yeah..Noo, I ain't on that **** ****, & I ain't no captain save a ** shawty, but you so delicate, you the definition of class Yeah.. You (a real woman2)..,that's why..(I want you3)(I want you yeah2)..(just you baby2).. Yeah (only you girl..2)..just you..Uhh
I'll come to your rescue, when ever you need me to girl,baby, I'll give you your every want & need (Yeah2)..I'll protect you from these **** boys..I'll be (yo hero Yeah2)..girl you can be my biggest fan, I'll give you a special VIP pass, baby you can be my best friend..Uhh..Yeah baby let's get married & have kids , I promise to be there for you, I'll hold you down, no more crying girl, at all.., baby we can ride (to the end2)..Uhh..Ohh Yeah..

(Ohh I2)..want you, you so fine, you so fly, you just you, Baby I love it when after we make love then cuddle together boo..you so bearable, you so unique, Yeah I wanna share my life & happiness with you & only you baby...Yeah
(Ohh I2)..want you..(I want you3)..(Ohh I3)..
(I want you *3)..(Ohh I6)..Young Ston


(Yeah *****..*2)..Yeah..Uhh..
Ston Poet..
I want you.....

One. I was Seven years old when the pain started
it came like an apology note I didn't ask for
like a bullies mom making him say sorry because he had to.
You were my sad excuse for an apology
you wrote your sorry on my skin
etched it in sin
and stole the security of my seven year old self.
Months after the days got cold
and my body was looking for some sort of warmth
found inside my sexuality-
I broke down.
Too many '4am picking mommy off the ground's
and '7am dragging myself out of bed's
too many fist fights with walls I never won against,
too many knives hiding underneath pillows-
and I wonder why I have attachment issues.
A swinging belt from my ceiling fan
that wasn't strong enough to hold my frail 7 year old body
I didn't break anything except for my spirits
the pleather wasn't secure enough-
I have been afraid of commitment ever since.
2. The day I saw your face withering away-
cancer etched inside your skin like sand
and the daylight never seemed like daylight to me
because it reminded me how the next day
was just 24 more hours closer to darkness.
As the days passed, your strength diminished
and as I saw you break-
I started to remember the things my 7 year old self went through.
I kissed a boy for the first time and remembered how it felt
the musty basement smell and the hands around my waist-
in that moment I was in a time machine
reverted back to my childhood and reminded myself
why exactly I was so scared of commitment.
My grandmother's face transformed into a stranger
and as I looked into the mirror so did I.
I would lie to everyone and say that I was fine
took some pills down the hatch to make it all better
until one time it was too much.
My stomach didn't know the words
my lips were trying to sing
they couldn't handle the music inside of me.
So I regurgitated a chorus of falsification
and threw up a string quartet of lonely-
I've never really been good at reading sheet music.
3. My doctor painted a picture of me
she put a dark cloud over my head
and drew me into what she wanted
she titled me "depressed"
all I wanted was for her to fix my stomach pain
but instead she fed me pills-
levels in your brain can be fixed
but she wasn't altering the right chemicals
I took a nosedive.
Saw what she drew for me when I looked into the mirror-
it was nothing but 15 more pounds
of what already brought me down
so I wanted to be auctioned off to the highest bidder
heaven had in store for me.
So I painted my own picture across my wrists
but the paint brush wasn't thick enough
and the red didn't spill the way I needed it to-
I've found I'm not much of an artist.

1. I met you around the same time
I found myself-
around the same time
swing sets were more home than my own
and soccer fields were my safe haven.
Middle school love triangle-
you cheated on me with my best friend
I thought I loved you then.
You drew me a picture of us together
and stitched together a weird stuffed animal
I found you weren't much of an artist.
2. The bottle and you fell in love
and I was blinded by lonely-
the affirmation was my drug
and the Jack Daniel's was yours
I was accustomed to the chaos
and the inconsistency.
You brought back the bad memories
and they sung me to sleep that night after
as the chorus of your hands on my hips
led me into an abyss of heavy metal
which led to the silence of my cell phone the next day-
I was never really good at reading your sheet music.
3. Timid was the way we connected-
felt a sense of insanity from the start
and anxious like I never had before
you changed the way I saw things
molded me into yourself
and took the grips of my reality
and let them fit inside your box.
Every instance of socialization
would turn into an argument
then I would succumb to the solitude
All because I cared for you.
You're a lot like my father-
I never realized it until I left you there
almost in tears standing in your driveway
you watched me walk away.
As I see you now with clear eyes and a not so heavy heart
I realize you're a lot like the belt I used-
not strong enough to hold me up
but still you contributed to my downfall.
I laid on that ground for some time
saw as you confirmed my suspicions
of old feelings for exes and your girl friends,
morning texts to my cell phone on how you miss me
how you ****** up losing me
texts back from me agreeing with you
kicking you off the high horse you once rode upon-
realizing you never appreciated me as a person
not until this love slipped through your fingers
and you were forced to realize it was you
defense mechanisms became your fortitude
and you tried to act like this knife I returned
didn't stab you in your heart like it did to me-
I've been afraid of commitment ever since..

1. Memories do not control me-
they kept me inside a cage
and watched as I outgrew it
prying the bars away from my hands
the memory can't touch me anymore
2. Two of these people don't belong on this list-
because they only showed me what love really
isn't.
3. Don't even think about falling in love with me, or hurting me-
unless you realize you will become poetry.
3. I've been afraid of commitment ever since
I realized you weren't a very good artist
so I've been racking my brain trying to read this sheet music
but I realize now who the **** needs sheet music
when you don't play any instruments.
3. Im tired of being around people I cannot read
seeing things that remind me of my seven year old sin-
take away the bad and remind me things can be good again.
3. Now I am invincible-
because the list of love will grow
while the other will be just a list to me.
Listen to me...
don't fall in love with someone who writes poetry
they will make beauty out of your tragedy
and sonnets out of your personality.
3. Personally, that's the only beauty I'll ever need.
The one that comes from me
shoots through my fingers quicker than
1, 2, 3-
I can count all the times I've tried to **** myself on one hand
1, 2, 3-
I can count all the men I've ever loved on the other
1, 2, 3-
but what I can't count?
All this poetry that became of me
because of those 1, 2, 3s.
And that's the best **** part about tragedy
you turn it into your own masterpiece.

A flamingo in a bright back garden is grooming it’s feathers. What it sees from the shade cast by the statues of ancient Gods and facing an incarnation of the Buddha is a mystery. Balanced on one foot in a corner pond covered in dark green pads and innocent opulent white lilies it peers down towards the warm tiled floor. The limestone slabs are etched with chalk hearts like fortune cookies next to hopscotch and drawings of monsters and men. I am a scatter-brain, but I cannot feign an understanding of what this bird is looking at, and so fondly. Parched dead leaves not cleared from autumns past dwell below a dusty circular patio table mixed with used cat litter and fallen grapefruit that have dropped from the tree above. Though most of the colour is muted or bland there are infusions of vibrancy from the vermillion bed sheet to the violet bloom of clusters of flowers that pierce through the vines and corrugated iron. My garden at Giverney without a bridge in the centre of the picture, there are instead are two chairs. Comfortable chairs whose metallic legs and arms glisten in the light and whose black pleather fabric absorbs the heat of another wild day.

The flamingo is a strange visitor to this garden that is mostly derelict and sparse,
It’s gangly frame leaps out of the water ***** it’s wings and departs.

In sophomore year, I was top in the county, one of the very best.
The school even made me a mug:
Johnny McCarthy: World’s Greatest Running Back.
There were so many times I saved our ***,
so many moments, four downs in, that I came through for them.
But then I my knee exploded in bone, and they all suddenly forgot.

I never really had to care before that; about anything, really.
Everything was given to me – friends and girlfriends and grades.
Especially grades; let me tell you, teachers are less sympathetic when you’re in a wheelchair.
And that’s what ****** me off most: when I felt most pathetic and most hurt, people cared the least.

My mom would kiss my forehead whenever she saw my eyes looking beyond the TV screen,
and she’d say something like “a leopard’s stuck with its stripes.”
Sometimes they wouldn’t make sense, but just hearing her sing proverbs with such confidence,
well, it was comforting have a self-proclaimed-sage living in the house.

As I rattled over the gravel walkways to the student parking lot, I would see the football fields,
see the guys practicing, laughing, and looking at everything but the sad *******.
It was then I learned that I hated football – well not football itself,
but what football meant in this west Pennsylvania town.
I hated how it was everything, and without it, I was nothing.
I was the overweight cheerleader to them, I was the equipment manager.
I was even worse than that to them, now.

I charged my wheelchair to our sixteen year old Dodge Caravan, and lifted myself in,
leaving the chair outside the driver’s side door.
I tore onto 270, and aimed myself north.
Driving on the stony stretch, between the strip-mined mountains and the blanket of pine,
I thought about what was left for me back in town.

I thought about my recently ex-girlfriend, who was like a butterfly,
in her ability to float from flower to flower, and **** as much life as she needed
before fluttering away to some other unlucky ****.

I thought of my high school English teacher,
the only one who pretended to care about me after I was drained of reputation.
He gave me a book, the Catcher of the Rye. I haven’t read it yet – it looks really long.
I want him to thing that I did, though, so I guess I’ll tell him what he wants to hear.

I thought about the half-black kid Christopher, who started up the anime club.
It was cosplay day, so we took his gym clothes and threw them in the toilet.
He had to run laps dressed like a samurai, and ended up ripping his kimono.
We all laughed, though I always wondered how hard he must’ve worked on it.

And I remembered my mother, with her free promotional shirts and forest green sweatpants.
I thought about her tiny piggy figurines in that case in the kitchen,
and how proud she is when the Hamburger Helper isn’t burned.
I imagined her kissing me on the forehead and saying:
“Home is a dangerous thing, and there is little knowledge where the heart is,”
or something like that.

I remembered every individual in that tiny high school, and how in my last week there,
I felt like I was choking on everyone’s endless spoken noise.
I pulled onto one of the camp sites at William’s Lake and collapsed out of the car.
I dragged my leg to the shivering shoal of the stagnant pool, and dipped my casted knee in the water.

I felt its bacteria swim in the wound, the exposed bone now pressed beneath my false flesh,
and infect me with a slow disease that felt like a long warming hug.
The water was shifting to a higher tide, and I lay there, feeling every knot of its slow ascent.
Its green-grey film floated at my chest, and I felt determined to let the algae find its way above my head.
As it creeped its oddly tepid sheet up and up my neck, I thought of telling off my ex-girlfriend,
and reading that book my teacher gave me,
and letting my mom know how much of an artist she is.
I twisted over, and pulled my extended leg back into my minivan.
The van smelled like the lakebed now,
like a great many microbes dying and re-birthing silently, in the cracks of the tan pleather carseat.

It was a highway that brought me here
Stuffed into a expensive car with four adults and good music
We drove for what seemed hours
Arriving on the slick, black streets of the Emerald City
Down a rabbit hole of old cars and termite ridden stairs
Past an old couch and a stray cat
Into a cold room with heaters stacked and jumbled
Full of pianos and good and beer
People I've known for twelve years
And people I've met only once
People I don't know
Different skins, of their own, of animals
Frizzy and cropped hair, wine and mason jar glasses
Walls painted silver, gleaming under forty year old lamps
Mismatched furniture and occupants alike
Sirens singing in the background
Children running through the foreground
Old friends and a blind man with a big dog
Visual artists and IRS agents
Musicians and carpenters
Mechanical engineers
Cobbled together around and old fireplace and a rosewood piano
Sharing stories and songs, sons and daughters
Tales from the road, and wedding pictures
I sat on an orange pleather couch in the makeshift kitchen
Watching theses people's children play with bionicles and dolls
Reading books and drawing on walls
Playing drums and answering calls
Fighting for bathroom stall
These are my people
I know them all

assign me a piece of your mind and

to the bottom of my rucksack it’ll go and

its whispering will shake all the change and

bad and same i keep stuffed in there too and

send shrapnel singing straight at my heart but

don’t worry baby, it’s as tough as

brand new pleather and don’t fret sweetie as

though i don’t really have the funds as

long as what seeps ‘tween front teeth as

whispered ammunition is still friendly fire as

i hold your pan, i’m your darling refugee but

don’t feel bad about it honey 'cos

if you smile just right, then we’re a rainbow 'cos

i’m the sun and you’re just rain 'cos

hell is hot and raindrops have halos ( i said that cos

you can’t trust people not to get mixed up) but

please,

please,

don’t be offended

you aren’t the first person to be so dependant

please,

please,

cut the drugs that you’re taking

and send some to someone whose fingers aren’t quaking

please,

please,

pass me the ***,

consult a dentist re: bleeding gums,

please,

please,

just let me cry,

**** your equations,

don’t be so polite,

please,

please,

please go away,

don't pretend not to hate me

and promise to say

nothing at all

but what is true

“that ***** only gave me  

standard super glue”

Your bedroom is a carefully preserved time capsule,
a tribute to a fondly remembered time long past.
Though I have visited this small square room less than
feels right since our once tight-knit group dissolved, it is
kept as pristine as a display about a foregone era in a dark
and cluttered museum.  The walls still stand wearily in that
same stubborn shade between periwinkle and robin's egg,
the only difference is one unfamiliar poster-the rest have
hung steadfast in the same positions since you moved into this
bedroom from the one next door many years prior.  In the
corner across from your bed, rests the desk you have
used to hold some of your most valued items for as long as
we have traversed the undulating cycle between friendship
and acquaintanceship, including the now-empty terrarium that
bravely contained a wooly tarantula.  Your closet, still noticeably
bare, informs me, through a smattering of neon yellow t-shirts,
that you are still employed for the same landscaper. As we pass a
meticulously re-rolled cigar between us, two old and distant
friends, my vision drifts towards the dresser under the plain
windows, which overlook your claustrophobic backyard.  It is,
surely, an Ikea affair, for though it has the coloring of mahogany,
the wood has the unmistakable sheen of faux; but what compels me
to gaze at this dresser is not its questionable quality but the years
of graffiti scrawled across its drawers and walls in the sort of thick
black marker that might give one lightheadedness if uncapped for
too long.  I realize, suddenly, that this dresser is our monolith.

I express to you my incredulity that you have kept this dresser,
of all things, for so long, as a wry grin splits my mouth in halves.
Too many memories, you say, a melancholy tone suddenly echoing
through the small bedroom.  My grin fades, and I look closely,
recalling in a bright flash a multitude of intoxicant-fueled evenings-
you were always in that black pleather computer chair, while
always I sat on the bed, squished between or beside the
on-again-off-again couple.  The exact words inscribed upon this
Ikea monolith, I realize, are no longer of importance, for they
are largely insensitive, pejorative, and crude.  These words are
the spirit of a fading adolescence wasted in suburban bedrooms
and backyards, or in city basements and roofs, spawned by
countless cases of the cheapest beers available, by handles of
off-brand *****, by bags of substances in every shape and
size imaginable.  I am staring at a proclamation of a girl's
promiscuity on this very monolith when you exclaim that you
would give anything to have a time machine, to go back to those
days, that they were the happiest days of your life.  Though
outwardly I smile and offer a noncommittal expression of
sentimentality, inwardly I frown, struck by a wave of pity.  

Halfway between twenty and thirty, I am no longer the shy,
hasty, or withdrawn teenager who spent hours cooped up in
a stagnant bedroom, ****** and bored. I can suddenly perceive
exactly how little you, my old friend, have changed, and I am
ashamed of my inability to say so.  But that couple imploded
years ago in a neon display, temporarily destroying all that
surrounded them; all of the satellites that orbited our group
have moved out of our gravitational field, some going off
to college, some getting good jobs, some moving to big
cities, some starting bands.  Graduations or birthdays
might bring us together for a few hours of drunken
reminiscence, we all know, somewhere, that we have
grown apart, while you hide in this bedroom,
a lonely hermit.

This room is not a time capsule;
it is a tomb, and the Ikea monolith might as well be your
headstone.

Snags in her tights,
Chipped black on her claws,
She stands against walls,
Vulnerable to the brawls.

A skirt grazing her thighs,
Too small for her liking,
She pulls at the seems,
And feeds the old men lies.

Lips that bleed,
Mascara stained cheek,
Frame too slim,
She's in the gutter, sensual and meek.

Lady of the night,
Rolls to your car,
beckons you with her finger,
hopes you won't linger.

A ten note slips,
Into her grip.
She squeezes.
It will feed her addiction.

She has money to pay,
Children to feed,
She digs her knuckles so much they bleed.

Life carries by,
As she tries to get high,
On the fumes of other men.

But the red light comes on,
Her skirt hitches up,
She cries as he whispers
good girl.

As he kisses her neck,
She thinks what the heck
Am I doing with my **** awful life,
Selling cheap love,
To father above,
In hope she gets a better price
than the tiny sum
From every business bloke that comes, beckons her into his arms.

She pulls at her pleather,
At her last tether,
Why am I in this life?

Soho's her home,
But it leaves her numb to the bone.

She has more than budget passion,
She craves style,
She fashion.

But instead the needle pierces,
And she sinks down,
Hating the body she's in,
Women walk and they frown,
But they don't understand how the girl feels deep down,
She just wants true love.

Oh heaven above?
If there is a Holy Spirit,
Let me be it,
For this withered young *******,
Belongs in your constitute,
Please, she begs, save me from the charity brutes.

I bought some leather pants today
pleather, to be exact
they were cheep, but what I wanted
They fit tight on my legs and loose on my hips
they cling to my nonexistent ****
and make me feel **** for the first time in my life
and  somehow they make me feel rebellious
and less invisible
If I wear them to school tomorrow will they all stare?
I hope so
I need someone to notice me

I wrote you a letter, oh was I ever the fool
To think that you'd want me: the geek at the pool
Maybe if I wore a v-neck like those dudes you like
Or if I wore those pleather pants and had a motorbike
But instead I'm wearing swim trunks that are sporting Spiderman
The kid one, not the knock-off of the movie from Japan
My complexion's pasty white, like I was locked away for years
And my aversion to the ocean's only heightened by my fears
Of public humiliation, but it seems I've got that down
Because no matter what I do, I'm the laughingstock of town
So when your letter got here, it came as no surprise
To read. "*******, Jason T. Go and dry your **** four eyes."

The cab moved quietly
Beneath the street lamps
Pleather seats: torn, faded
There we sat, silent- content.
The driver, a portly man, hacked
Struggling, his breathing deepened
Panting, gasping to regain regularity
Quickly, his breath filled the
Confined, litter-shrouded,
Van with the stench of
Cheap cigar smoke

We arrived at her home
The driver approached slowly
Carefully avoiding the icy snow
Banked earlier by the cities plows
Sliding the van door open I step out
Still holding her hand, the night air
Enters my lungs, sobering me
Just for that brief instant

Hastily, she leans in
Without hesitation, I meet her
Ambitious advance, reciprocating
The kiss is brief; I’m no longer cold
Her lips are warm and soft against mine
Retreating, she smiles. I gently brush her hair
Behind her ear unveiling a dark brown eye
My glazed, drunk, stare meet hers
Her grin, now beginning to fade
She looks down in confusion

I sense the cab driver behind me
Growing impatient he lights a cigar
Before turning away she whispers night
Her hand lets go of mine; our fingers part
Complacent, tomorrow she will return to him
Revisiting that feigned, simulated, infatuation
The kind they falsely advertised as ‘love’
Standing alone, I’m cold once more
Keying in, she doesn’t look back

Reaching into my pocket
Scrounging for what cash is left
To the cab, I surrender my last five dollars
This pays just enough to get me where I stand
Dissatisfied with his tip, the driver departs cursing
Unsure what to make of the evening, I begin my walk
Now, not so sobering, the night air dries my throat
The chilled breeze that once blushed her cheeks
Now stings my nose, ears, and finger tips
Alone, I continue west- home
Cold, I have miles ahead
Spirit torn in twain
I walk them.

All my **** got repossessed
By an aardvark in a leather vest
That he swears is only vinyl
But won’t tell me where to buy my own

He says if I can go six months
With no late payments
On my credit card statements
He’ll let the name slip

I’ve got to get my **** together
Or this cruelty-free vegan sleeveless pleather
Statement piece might slip away from me

So, these days, I’m
Dedicated to paying
This debt I’ve accumulated
Despite the social detriment
Withdrawal and depressive episodes
All in the name of
Improving my credit score

Until when?
The day comes up
That I’ve paid for the stuff
That I bought without paying for
I’m practically stable
By now

The aardvark from the IRS
Reappears as my remaining debt and interest
Dwindles into a less pressing account
For the withholding public servant
Who’s about to grant me access
To the privileged information
I’ve been craving for months

It was an Etsy shop
And they’re all sold out

That moment of awkward forced eye contact between strangers
On a hot and crowded public bus.
My reflection on the screen of my laptop seems to soft
Against the harsh rattles, jangles, clatters.
Peculiar people spoiled by the heat.
Thighs stick to pleather covered seats..
While candy apple red hair with a wrinkled face
Speed talks keeping pace with the changing place
Outside wide tinted windows,
Miss hand gestures competes for air space
While the wind whistles through an open window.
Shadows dance across the broken dreams
Of a forlorn man wringing withered torn hands.
No silence draws attention like his can,
Stands out like a numb spot
On a sore thumb. Falls nicely behind
The loud roars and murmured hum.
The whole seen a dysfunctional sort of thing,
But I think you would better yourself
If for one day you let your guard down
And climb into a packed space on a hot day
And made friends with
That moment of forced awkward eye contact between strangers.

Staring at the man
who wishes
for me to
sit down

I will crush it
that spherical demon
high strung with
cotton twine and pleather

Throw at me, bro!
Gaussian function
calculated velocity
ready to strike

Don't cross my domain
this is my house!
my sneer gets sneerier
my grip intensifies

KAPOWzawazzzzA!
the earth quakes
my energy released
Sixty feet to victory!

I move like the wind
of hurricane force
I feel a POP!
Thirty feet to saftey

I limp
back home
I'm too old for
this $hit!

Heat and ice
twice thrice
doctor's reason
out for the season

I wanted to toss
something,
I wanted to feel
your body
like
palm prints
on my windowshield.

Write
"I HATE YOU"
all over me.

I can take it.

I've got thick skin,
but my heart
is shallow;
you could touch
it
before your fingers
grace
the pleather
of my backseat.

I fake it alot.

Some girls think I'm macho as ****,
but really,
at my creamy center
I **** them
like they are splinters.

Just trying to get it out.

So let's back out.

What's a splinter
to a whole human?

Nothing.

Nothing but an irritant
that itches,
when the computer
is on a high-wire
glitch
and these girls climb telephone poles
thinking
they're fixing
me.

When really you've boled
a hole
in everything
and climbing poles
gets them farther
from my core.

We are all reverberating shrapnel of an explosive kaleidoscope of organized chaos
We’re scurrying ants piggybacking bread crumbs that press too-heavily on our abdomens
We’d scratch our way up to the constellations on the ceiling if we could just be weightless; if we could just find the right handgrips and footholds
But shoelaces get tangled, palms get sweaty, knuckles get scratched, bodies get heavy
So instead we settle for ducking into tunnels, seeking out the empty train-cars and avoiding eye contact with strangers
Seated alone in tattered pleather seats, we wish we could dissolve the stained grimy window-glass that stands between us and everything that could matter
We’ll force smile-lines into our cheeks when we reach our destinations while quietly scrabbling at the semiprecious dream of a place that we can’t articulate: the unattainable, inexplicable else else elsewhere

The two sat together on the ripped pleather diner booth,
eating mashed corn meal and sipping luke warm tea.
Who were they?
Dencher paste and a floral dress.
What used to be, lingering in the past like a faded sepia photograph.
Two booths behind them sit another smitten pair,
eating hamburgers, fries and sharing a Butterfinger milkshake.
Who will they be?
Laced up boots and faded blue jeans.
What's ahead of them, a mystery wrapped in a paper box, laced with a bow.
A present.
Both pairs remain in the present,
frozen in time for only a short while.
The older couple waves to the younger couple as they leave.
"See you later Grandma," the young girl says with a knowing smile.

Faux fur, red lips, pleather
Everyone stops to listen, greet one another
So much time has passed.
But I jump when I receive a text from you
A girlfriend and I lament your departure
Please don't forget me.

My grandmother loved black and white
My brothers and I chow down on rice
A drink in my hand, everyone is so glad to see me
But I know how much I don't belong.

I fear sometimes
That a ring should be on my finger
But I look around and I would rather not settle.
Its not that I don't have love in my life
But I know, its not it
God, do I long for the fairytales
White wedding veil
A sundress and firm body, with a beautiful man standing next to me
My dreams and career not abruptly stopping
Let it be the best dance partner.

I'm not really sure why things work out the way they do
And I have started to grow bored of my own poetry
But call me darling, again.

I have cheated in the past
And I hope I don't cheat again
When a man is a man,
And makes me want nothing else but him.

Call me tomorrow,
Call me tonight
Call me right now.

I am at my best when I run through the Alabama flowers
But I am much too young to play Blanche Dubois
And thats okay
Because I don't really belong here anyway.

But the love and the sentiment
The sensuality
Is within me
Tattooed on me with a gentle hand
I act like a little girl, when I am back home again.

Him
He is there
Pleather Jacket bleaching the top of his hair
He is
New
Strange
I get a weird feeling looking at his face
Fake gauges
Long eyelashes
A new student to the school
He has two of my classes
He is
--- Unidentified
I'm intrigued

Well now this is sad and tragic
For both of us to hear
You and I at cross purposes
Ever our fate, my Dear

I just found your correspondence
Last letter that you sent
It was, I think, the final time
That you called me a friend

It was in a pile of papers
From my old mother’s house
With other cards and notes you gave
Back when we were devout

I will use these words to explain
In a way you’ll never see
That this miscommunication
Gave a wrong view of me

You sent it at a year or so
After we were finished
Within its words I sense your hope
Love not yet diminished

I think you may have mentioned it
After you came back home
When I once tried to talk but you
Walked by and wouldn't slow

A mutual friend spoke of it
Some two decades ago
And I was mystified because
I simply didn’t know

I didn’t recall the letter
Forgotten its receipt
But when I found and read its words
I recalled its described deeds

Your letter was at my mother’s
‘Cause I was injured bad
I’d had surgery and meds
With healing to be had

I received it in the doorway
Of my home at college
I tore open with alacrity
Falling from my crutches

I read part of your note that day
Then stuck it in my bag
Packed your other notes and cards
To fix the hurt I’d had

After my knee operation
Sitting up late at night
Unable to sleep sound because
Meds made my heartbeat slight

I recall being sad one eve
In Mother's modest home
Watching her little poor TV
Reviewing your slim tomes

In your letter, amazing lands!
And magical far places!
And one hundred mile per hour
Motorcycle chases!

Such experiences you had all
Through Europe’s bevelled plains!
But I in healing poverty
Felt sore lament and pain

I could not join you there, at least
Not for several years
Did you even want me to try?
You couldn’t know that fear

Your family was very wealthy
It’s hard for you to see
The lowly circumstances
That were the start of me

You never knew how bad it felt
My inadequacy
To give you that magnificence
That you deserved to be

Poor upbringing was no issue
For your generous heart
You never held it against me
Never pushed us apart

But it caused misunderstandings
From worlds so different
And my worries about it too
Increased how much it meant

I read your letter ‘til I saw
Your plans a year away
When you said with hopefulness
You’d move to Greece to stay

That is on the note's second page
I never read page three
‘Cause that's the point when I just knew
That you were lost to me

If I had read a bit further
For a lover's redress
Was hid a small request you made
In false casualness

You sought a call for your birthday
Bare affection from me
The letter asked for that action
A simple courtesy

Your year away almost over
You were soon coming back
I was thinking about restarting
And fixing what I lacked

Like truth serum the meds would have
****** away all my fight
I’d have called you...so so quickly
I’d have called you...ev’ry night

My Precious Girl, I’d have called you
There’s no way I wouldn’t
Healing slow on a pleather couch
There's no way I couldn't

I used to wish for your number
I was so ready too
I’d been pondering what we’d had
And I still wanted you

You were badly hurt thereafter
There was no getting through
Your broken heart gave a verdict
And THAT's when I lost you

It’s a tragedy in our lives
As that was your last sign
Of my lack of real love for you
And fickle boyish mind

It rankles so much in me now
Since that’s not how it was
It’s just one of those fateful things
God’s little joke on us

….

A Happy Belated Birthday
For now and all your life
I wish you joyous contentment
And love that’s free from strife

But I know something deeply in
My bones and in my soul
I know I would have called you if
I’d read your letter full

And I’d have wished you way back then
A Happy Birthday too
And I’d have told you on that call

How much I still loved you