Another silent mid-Fall afternoon
Icy raindrops slash into my neck
The forecast calls for falling thumbtacks soon
One thin umbrella folding
Just 18 feet to the front step

With champagne acquainted
But forgot how to sip it
I slurp it down, eager,
'til I sit soaked and dripping

In time, fevered minds
will lower ears made for hearing
under waves of migraines
as mighty storm fronts are nearing

So I close down the bars and stumble home under awnings
Just to search for your name among newspaper cuttings
I've read the whole issue
and I've frowned over headlines
     put it down

Now, soaked or dry, I've got only time
I've wasted so much of it losing my mind
I'm blind in the rain that now sticks in my hide
     and they were right--
The forecast called for this squall to last all night

Another lonely mid-Fall morning walk
I follow gangs of specters in their steps
And, in the crunching gravel, ghosts will talk
November winds come howling
The second I leave my front step

The flavor's familiar
It comes back every morning,
when sunlight and sparrows
ignore tornado warnings

So the gales pick up strength
and a small bird's bones are hollow
The clouds lay oceans down
setting many sips to swallow

"So goodnight." I depart, but circle back in my wanderings
I'll always wind up here--shaky, ash-faced and yawning
I've read this before
it's printed on poor paper
     in red ink

I can't say why I'm still walking by
Those other front doorsteps that I never try
The thick thumbtack rain stopped but I can't stay dry
     the ghosts were right--
But if I find your name I might stop by.

and by the way
there are flies in the basement,
no doubt, the
result of passionless blood-letting and
christ-sharp animalistic screams (that scatter across places)
where ingrown genital hairs take presidence over ionized howls of ecstasy-
where flies buzz around and die, worshiping the patchwork
row of halogen lamps
that get so hot as to scorch the hairy legs that spread apart wide just to touch the
sacred flesh of incandescence
-these that ****** reckless photons into the tepid air like rotting meat
and wants them to **** the last drops of electromagnetic ******* from their poems of illumination.  
meanwhile
i can be found numbing myself into comfort and complacency-
the phosphenes of faustian inadequacy taxing my eyes
with the vaporous waking that seeps through the vacant-
but i knew it was real when you pulled down your tattered jeans, exposing your backside to my interpretations of perfection and
allowing me the liberty of *******.
i have seen you scream.
and breathed your sigh of servitude.
these wet ******* and the tangy juices of anticipation dripping down your thighs becomes reality
and reality consumes.
and the world becomes conscious awareness.
and there is nothing to be known except this.
alleviant zero of the cyclic
and the 60-cycle hum of stagnation-
frustration.
we know that tomorrow
the angel-headed hipsters
will be basking in the instagram-induced solar radiation,
supine on the neatly cut grass,
donning their leather jackets and skin-tight corduroys. thick-rimmed-plastic sunglasses
obscure their frail vision and allow them to distance themselves just enough from the sunsoaked oasis to call themselves "cool"
and i would hardly know to recognize you amongst the candorous chatter about humanity and the existence of love
and i would hardly know to call you god
nor to look you in the face and tell you to dream a thought unthreatened by sanity
or to bring you to tears by means of dexterity.
i like my body for what its worth
but i did not try to stop them when they bound and ***** the waitress.
i stood and watched as those gentle agnostics tore apart her lacy blouse
and pushed thumbtacks through her ******* just to watch her scream
and she liked it.
when they held onto her skeleton ribs and hipless hips
and she liked it,
they tasted the *** with cinnamon tongues,
received the grace of an angel as pierced ******* and clitoral stimulation
listless yelps filled the tender air like howling phantoms-
little ms. misanthropy
with her
disposable epiphany
self-proclaimed teenage sage
with mistakes to make her wise
i try not to understand
and then i dreamt of forgiveness.
my days of holding grudges and killing mice are over
and when we don’t kiss
i can smile.
and did you want me to define you through destruction?
-martyrdom and madness?
her bracelet and studded pieces to decorate
only obliteration of expectation
gives my finger the feel of tendinitis
i have come to love things less
how i long to just let bay, my leaning lip
my wrist bent back, asks, how much more can be done here?
i guess it's a little too late to walk away.
endless mind-numbing repetition,
was it for the retribution?
or perhaps reassurance or the infliction of pain.
misdirected meaning-
bluebirds.
and blue-black bruises on your arms.
wrinkles.
from falling feathers and
do you hear the echoes of chains rattling in the cellar,
or was it just a love song gone wrong
alivient zero.
why do we have to be beautiful rebels
we leaned to love with our shoes on.
listening to the stereo silence-  
runaway gems, poetic outcasts
leaderless young lovers
she was a young poet
but her tv ran out of new channels
idols were made here, dreams shattered, and promises left unbroken
but her *******, not left untouched

unblessed
i can taste it in your tears
i can hear it in your voice

bless these tiny fingertips and her lips are soft.
her skin is a whisper.
i will leave no inch of flesh-

unsacrificed.


her wounds bled with the words,

*you begin
to
understand-
all of me

i'm writing this letter for you.
you in the other room, i hear you through the wall,
talking
to yourself,
telling yourself secrets you never believe.
i have some i'd like to spill,
but every time i try,
the walls soak them up like
white cotton and
black ink.
i'd like you to hear something other than your own voice
and maybe you can hear me when
you read.
you brought me here.
took me with you when you left like
a trinket,
a memento of home,
something to hold in the night when regret is like
a knot of snakes
in your gut.
ibd driving you
to tangle limbs with another;
a facsimile of love
driving me.
i think now it was less love and more addiction.
less love and more stockholm syndrome,
a disorder i cultivated
to have a reason to stay with you, with you,
the most beautiful sledgehammer
i've ever seen.
euphonious dynamite.
you are thumbtacks in my eyes and dry clouds above my desert,
you drop through me like lead:
you are a pneumatic drill and i
am a porcelain doll,
a quail's egg
you shatter me and i know
i never had a chance -
who bets on a dead horse?
who spends all their faith on a pantheon
that rots as they watch.
you desiccate me decimate me and i let you.
you are a world war in the body of a girl,
and i am naught but
cannon fodder
and cotton mouth i read you poetry but the walls swallowed my words
and all you heard was breath
(isn't that enough that should be enough,
a gust of wind
a breeze;
and the spirit is nothing but air,
pneumatic:
cavitied and consecrated.
the walls swallowed its manifestations,
but you
felt my spirit on your skin)
but i am not
enough
you are tire tracks on my abandoned road and you
brought me with you whenever you ran and
never believed me when i told you that
(not every problem can be solved with a map
spread on the dashboard).
you don't care about solutions,  
though,
just avoidance and denial and
distraction,
you treat every vagrant
like god in disguise
you take every hitchhiker into your heart and carry them like tumors,
infirmity is contagious.
a gift the bodies share.
from you i received
an atrial septal defect;
a hole in my heart,
leaking  blood.
from you i received dysthymia and
a martyr complex.
from you i received knowledge:
[one: nobody is strong,
but some have reinforced their bomb shelters
with their own bones.]
[two: a baby doll, baby girl
thick wrists,
sick recurring pain in the form of mirrors,
bathroom stalls and naked form]
[three: a gasmask can't protect you from the poison in your veins.
believe me,
i tried]
[four: the gaps between your bones
will one day be filled
and you will feel whole]
[five: the blue lips of a deep sea diver
should not be idolized.
the only surgeries you perform should be on your own heart
so you wound no one but yourself
when your hands
shake.]
[six: i tried, i promise,
i tried,
i tried]
you are false sermons and i am a believer you are thumbtacks in my eyes and lightning flowers on my back.
when i perform self-surgery,
i will bisect my heart

take it with you when you run
i will stay behind
and speak to the walls.

I remember the sweat
Clinging to your war-torn back
Like rain,
A succulent, torrential downpour
Of fury and lust.
And in that moment
I knew myself to be much more
Than I had ever at any variable point
Thought before.

clear thumbtacks hold the
few blades of grass
collected from the meadows
of the Magnificent Days.
no baby blanket can wrap up
these times;
no perfume from the 80's
mask such greatness.
driving home at 8:56
in february feels like four-thirteen a.m.
while it's raining
(how strange)
we don't feel like talking,
we don't feel like junk food
but scratchy blankets to tuck
in the snow-less mountains
this time of year.
something has to cover them,
because our society doesn't approve
of ******
or happiness, really
for our smoke detectors
are dead and the mirrors are stained
the rugs are frayed
and our poetry *****.
our candles smell like grandmothers
but that future for us isn't so
far away.
we focus on the water that will burst
past the controlled walls
in a few months;
that's so close (too close) to tell
because we are told
we won't end up being what we thought
we'd wanted at sixteen.
our christmas lights are getting dull
and we don't strive to make people jealous
anymore.
we just sulk on the loss
of the Magnificent Days,
bright and kind.

the other night,
i had a dream;
usually,
i don’t remember
my dreams—
those unconscious
musings
of my mind—
but this night
was different;
maybe it had
something to do
with the fact
that i had fallen
in the shower
half an hour
before laying it
down on the
pillow...

...a trickle of
blood running
down my forehead,
transforming quite
alarmingly into
a babbling brook
consisting entirely
of chocolate milk;
my raft bobbed
up and down,
the demon who
haunts my nightmares
now clad in a
tuxedo—
a nice change
from the bright
pink trench coat
he usually wears...

...the demon’s
strong hands
propel the
craft forward
with a rather
Huckleberry Finn-like
affectation;
i turn my
attention from
my oldest friend
to the shore,
sparkling with
broken glass,
thumbtacks,
and mathematical
equations;
there,
i glimpse my classmates
doing burpees...

...suddenly,
a car crash
occurs;
the chocolate milk
becomes a very
narrow,
winding road,
the end of which
is obscured by
an angsty cloud
of disappointment;
the elevator
plummets horizontally toward
the 3rd sub-basement
of the shower;
my friend in
the tuxedo offers me
a steaming
cup of hot chocolate...

...which burned
my tongue,
causing me to cackle
wildly
and toss the
mug into the
abyss;
“******* cup!”
i scream,
utilizing my
full lung capacity
as i begin to
fall again,
down,
down,
down;
and then i was awake,
sweating, bleeding;
i may have a concussion...

There have been hearts of mine that have cracked under the weight of easy love.
They hold a melody that I have hummed over and over.
Sometimes it begins slow,  like waves crashing on an empty shore.
Sometimes they haunt like a ship with a sail set fire.
I wonder where I will find the next incarnation because I am starting to tire.
The faint ring of intoxication has all but left my soul dy.
I hold a heart who screams in anguish at herself and every lover.
I home a soul too big for this body,
And she craves a song to live by.

short-handed love letters
written in the daydreams of a deliberate narcoleptic.

i send you the paper plane promises of summer
(sealed tightly in sweaty palmed envelopes)

you're not one to read poetry
yet i always manage to find feather light stanzas draped across your shoulders
held down by nothing more
than freckled thumbtacks

years fall away
like too heavy eyelashes onto cheeks

waiting to be brushed away
by the callused fingers of patient lovers

our slow and natural tendencies
our lips mimic the rate of gravity

you use a box cutter to lengthen the creases in my palm

but borrowed time
and fickle fate
will never heal heartbreak

this one is for the girl,
the one whose presence in my life,
rings like the screams of thumbtacks in my shoes,
whose words bite at my ankle,
the crab that cannot find another place to pinch,
and you know,
the moment,
when she walks away,
her *** brings my eyes to her,
quicker than a magnet attracts a compass,
because, we know, that no matter how the trees fall,
and the ice freezes the locks on our doors,
we'll always have a home to share in each other,
yeah, I can't walk a straight line,
without worrying about the pebbles in my socks,
but I know, the moment I get home,
you'll be there to rub my feet,
and I've learned, that when I see her body,
shakin' in the way that she sways it,
the heat between us is something of a fusion reaction,
two different elements, coming into one,
creating waves of thermal radiance,
oh, but the way her tongue lashes me,
the master, whipping her slave into working shape,
my body quivers and collapses,
and at her feet I'll lay,
a broken heap,
and somehow, when I look into her eyes,
the way they stare into my soul...
nothing ever happened,
and my body has climbed the ladder of evolution,
there I stand in herculean brilliance,
she'll waltz over to me,
swaying those..
****** hips,
and I'll wrap one arm around that flawless waist,
and we're one,
and the world is nothing.

Cinderella’s mop,
A fish on ice.
A picture of a
Spinning top,
A neighbour’s lights.

A framed page,
A line of ancient words.
Somerset at five am,
A line of birds.

Foreheads locked
At midnight,
Spent and heavy.
All the lives that
Have been lived
Already.

Bones of sailors
Sleeping through
The ocean.
Thumbtacks sorting out
A month’s commotion.

The moon’s ghostly
Pockmarked
Other half –
Still, moving,
A rebellious photograph.

i am a Spidey red Pontiac
the ceiling is falling in and the doors are broken
(that you pry open anyway
but only because i want you to)

you ask me with your eyelashes
why i don't put thumbtacks into the parts of me that droop and sag along the interior

and the heater whines softly,
smoke spilling in from a mangled motor
because i ask myself the same question

we are cramped, you and i
the stuffing seeping out of the back seat,
the mangled box spring hearts dangling from our chests like metal slinkies that can't find the floor
because we've swallowed one too many books
and seen each other barefoot once too few
but we are happy, you and i
we find amusement in red sweaters and pull Pokemon from Abe's old hat

i wouldn't pass the safety inspection for your soul
(but you drive me anyway)

I am enamored
With the idea
Of being in love

Not the kind of love
Where I say
I love you
And let you meet my family
Or maybe exactly that kind of love
A love like raindrops?
That, as fast as I run away from it
I cannot escape it

I want never ending night skies
But I’m obsessed with sunshine
Especially when it’s raining
Am I my own paradox of eternal delights?
If I am, I think I’m doing a good job of
Whatever this is, for once

I really really like holding on to the past
At this point, my wall is choking
On movie tickets and pictures
But I keep thumbtacks
By my bed anyway
Just in case I need to remember something new
That I didn’t forget in the short walk
From desk to window

It’s not being sentimental, I think
It’s being “sometimes I forget who I am so how do I know I won’t forget how happy feels or how my best friends laugh like sunshine?”

But let’s call it sentimental because
I have a real love-hate relationship with labels

I am the least organized person I know
But I’m constantly labeling people
It’s touch and go, this metaphorical game of tag
Friend, lover, enemy, acquaintance
These labels aren’t permanent
The fingerprints on my skin wash off like chalk in a rainstorm

And let me tell you
I am enamoured with rainstorms
Because when I don’t have an umbrella
They seem to feel a hell of a lot like love

My door frame is easy to break

it bends in half,

if you blow on it

and there’s left over gum

in the cracks

from all of the ***** mouths

of people who tried

to blow my house in

(it’s probably because so many have gone

that allows for so many to come)



If the walls have any color,

please let me know



When you get inside you’ll see the floor

covered in thumbtacks

that have fallen

from the memories that were once pinned

to my walls

but have since blown away

by the same breaths that had blown in my door

(I wish I had the heart

to pin them

back up)



If the walls have any color,

please let me know



If you manage your way into my kitchen

you’ll find

tea bags

and charred kettles

that I used to burn my words

when my mouth got too hot

(I always mess things up when I speak)



If the walls have any color,

please let me know



Please excuse the honey

smeared to my furniture

it was used to make guests stick

who were anxious to leave

from the moment they arrived

(I think the scent of insecurity

wrapped in lavender oil

sickened them)

When fuming,

after the guests turn away

I gag myself

into my pink toilet bowel

to allow the memories,

that have rotted in my gut,

to roll out on to

my

tea stained tongue

So please use the bathroom upstairs



If the walls have any color,

please let me know



I do not live there anymore

I had to run away again,

to get away from these rooms

that once cradled my innocence

(the frame has grown weak from carrying such burdens)



If the walls have any color,

please let me know



you’ll find me underneath the floor boards

lots of bits and pieces here, bits of strings, pieces of cloth, laundry pegs, handles to god knows what, scattered coins from scattered lands, paperclips, brokendreams, rubberbands, scraps of life
on paper doodled, rolls of film, batteries alive and dead, scary thoughts from one's head, lego blocks, bits of wood, seashells from the seashore, keys from a life before, unknown things, important somehow, jigsaw pieces of a china dove, thumbtacks, nuts, screws and bolts, lists to do, that just did not, lids from old jamjars, spent pepperpots, bright neon plastic straws, words left unsaid, that may have started wars, little stone pebbles collected,
because, packets of seeds, vegatable and flower, the combo to the lock, of all the lost hours,  bits of the times, i often regret,  pieces of my heart, awaiting repair.....
but amongst all this
stuff i cannot find,
any leftover, clarity of mind.
rooting around in the junk drawer of life, always an adventure, not always kind.

strong spirits

welcoming in nature-

powerful in instinct-

trying to find a moral compass-

one that they can believe in,

with all of their ****** hearts

searching for complete harmony

in a static world, charged by the sun.

their own saturated, sturdy bodies

learning to not know-

experiencing the now-

accepting that simplicity is beautiful-

realizing that no life has to be so complex.

—

no life needs to have so many thumbtacks

stuck in its cork board,

hanging on its bedroom wall-

only to be stared at by its owner

to distract from the present-

to keep sentimentality afloat-

to compare and contrast;

to remind a tired soul

of better moments and feelings

in its personal history.

but when those tiny memoirs

are reminisced upon,

the soul becomes vulnerable-

susceptible to reminding itself

of memories it does not want

to have as its own.

memories most likely forgotten-

blocked, and left somewhere

in the owner’s brain-

lost, due to lack of importance-

deterred from its conscious-

pushed back into its energy’s

open life storage, unconsciousness.

—

those memories like sharp tacks,

metal tips, dropped and unseen-

abandoned in a grey **** carpet-

left there so many months ago-

waiting for their owner

to decide their fate-

to either lay its bare foot

upon their thin metal,

creating a river of crimson-

so they may be finished with

their metaphorical life-

thrown in the trash can-

or they could taste the sweetness

of not being crushed-

of having one more day

to become as best as they can be-

to enjoy the soft, scraggily **** carpet-

to be unwanted, unfounded-

to aide in the growth of the now-

by refusing to resurface.

those memories, remembered or not-

are locked behind the purple indents

above the owner’s cheekbones-

below its red, puffy eyes-

violet crescents-

slowly caused by sleeplessness

and lack of nutrition.

—

if the past was not meant

to be consistently remembered,

why does humanity constantly try

to decode the future?

recorded history is meant so

living beings will not

repeat previous mistakes-

the human race is a cycle-

history will repeat itself-

mistakes and all-

the future is completely unknown.

predictions are never certain-

why spend the life one was given

trying to figure out why humanity

exists the way it does-

when in actuality, the researcher

is missing out on humanity as it is.

why try to figure out what happens

when someone’s energy is depleted-

when a mind is laid to rest, dead.

while searching, one is losing out

on actually being alive-

no one knows exactly

what happens when mortals die-

humans have been searching

ever since they developed cognizant

abilities, conscious minds…

the future will happen eventually-

people will experience it when it is time-

it is wasteful to spend one’s life

always looking for the answer-

instead of celebrating, and exploring

the earth that has given humanity

endless opportunities to love.

—

ghosts of creative minds

walking amongst the living-

ghosts encased in flesh

with no memory of their past lives-

their auras radiating-

saturated with ambition and kindness

following different dreams-

floating toward their goals

in a similar manner,

all with the same amount

of vigor and curiosity-

young (old) spirits;

hoping for their fellow

outspoken, anxious specters

to listen, and notice their potential-

to make their words understood-

to show their many points of view-

to let go of their pasts-

to stop worrying about the future-

to live in the present.

intelligent, brightly glowing entities-

the ones with flowing energies,

pigmented with color-

the ones striving for positivity;

the ones who really wish

for just one simple thing-

only for their peers

to consider clarity

as a degree or two on their own,

individual moral compasses.

to love this beautiful world

with no bias, with equality,

with excitement, and with

virtuous appreciation of life

as a common mystery-

one that would end a lot better

if it was left unsolved.

anxious is the body
the body is tonguin'
life is bold, bargained, and sold
and I'm only a youngin'  

the future is good
at being bad
unsure of what I should
but I see it's trap

I want to live forever
but only never-ever
the land of no measure
land of mysterious endeavor

a life of leisure lacks slacks
I like wrinkles in my shirt
pancakes in stacks
no cork boards or thumbtacks

a life of leisure lacks life
and leaves you a sinner
it's an early snack
and ruins dinner

my premature advice;
it's worth what you make it
break the rules and master your mistakes
life isn't here forever so take it

when it's a pin *****
on my soft skin a zit pops
i play my mind trick
and i stop
to think of the pain i choose
how i want to bruise
and bedazzle my back
in thumbtacks
running razor blades
making crimson masks

Yellow plums with sweet
flesh and sour skin
bleed down chins and smell
of summer swims and sneezes.

Once upon a time, a girl.

The grass seed and tree pollen
and dust and pet dander
and prickly pinecones and banjo strings
and the transition between analog and synthetic,
between automatic and didactic.

Ears perk like dogs at impossible pitches
upon a hidden harmony, missed melodic movement
she stops mid-sentence to hear, listen not hear, listen
for the sounds buried under sounds
and other sounds
and tape distortion
and old speakers
and ambient noise
and the head voices
and the wind in the leaves.

Candle flames hiss on extinguishing breaths
sighing promises for future dividends
dancing in circles on hardwood floors
skirt breezes
hip shakes until it's too much
floor shakes until it's all fallen
borrowing thumbtacks and bringing it all
bringing it all down.

Far in the distance I can hear the bells tolling, ringing not tolling, ringing
in time with the sunrise blinking, winking
sharing a knowing promise for a better day tomorrow,
today not tomorrow, today.

The fridge droned between the sound
of her impaired footsteps across
the 600 grit linoleum floor. She ran
my palms against the cave-like walls.
Eroded paint bubbling like balloons
before bursting, flattening beneath
her touch. She felt the key rack
with more keys than a piano store,
cork board with porcupine thumbtacks,
and the thin edge of the Disney calendar
beside the light switch. Patting the blood
off on her pant leg, she flipped the switch.
With her sleeve, she brushed crushed Oreos
from the table and sat. Scatted about
the stained mahogany was a few National
ENQUIRER subscription cards, used napkins,
and an overdue bank notice. Sliding the chair
back, she sulked to the switch and flipped it
back.

I pushed aside a plastic box
of plastic-backed thumbtacks,
a half-roll of Scotch tape,
and a paperclipped stack
of edited verse to write
a letter to you.
It went something like this:

Dear Audrey,
     No, that's too informal.
     Just her first name would imply
     our friendship didn't mean anything.
                     What about
Dear Mrs. Barber?
     Way too formal. Like, am I going
     to follow it with "can Billy come out
     to play," or "I'm sorry I threw snowballs
     at the side of your house," or "I apologize
     for skipping your class to pop Tums
     in the nurse's office."
                     Maybe
Dear Audrey Barber.
     Something about the sounds
     doesn't feel right. The Ds and Bs
     hit the eardrum weird, like marsh-
     mallows or caramel toffee.
     They're just too thick.
Dear Audrey Sofield Barber,
          There we go.
     It's been a pleasure knowing you this past year
     or so. In a way, I regret being there for the box-
     moving and the computer troubleshooting,
     but not for the sidewalk shoveling or book editing.
     Or driving you to Elmira Corning Airport to pick
     up your daughter. I'm an English writing tutor here—.

     Never mind. How's your book doing? I'm sure it's a hit.
     Enjoy Hawaii.
Sincerely,
     C. S. Cizek (Christopher)
    
P. S. I plan to purchase "Wellsboro Roots" over the summer
         and relive our conversations in Wellsboro over coffee
         and cheap sugar.

Thank you for the honor.

Today, i found myself outside of the
Drugstore.
Even the name has a dark connotation,
Like most things,
If you really think about it.
A store for drugs.
Now yet another thing that is made
For serious purposes
Is romanticized
By todays society.

I wasnt there to buy
Candy
Or makeup
Or toiletries
Like i probably shouldve been.
I was there for one thing,
And one thing only.

I headed into the stationary and
Household tools section,
Hoping to find the tiny bit of relief
Hanging off a shelf,
With my name carved into
The glinting metal,
Not unlike what i would be using it for.

But instead,
All i found were
Paperclips
And thumbtacks
And safety pins.
But i had hoped to escalade from that,
These innocent desk drawer tools.  

I didnt pick them up.
Did i want to?
Yes.
Do i have to?
Im not sure.
But i didnt.
And thats good enough for me.

I was half-awake when last we spoke,
My veins pumping thumbtacks and smoke,
Twelve hours west, a world apart,
A battleship with broken heart,
You were unbound, an empty page,
The spotlight that burned down the stage,
The calm beneath the raging sea,
Your bottled words now floating free,
But the tide brought with it fear and doubt,
Still I waded in to wait it out,
And watched as you went drifting by,
The last star in my fractured sky,
I said “Do your best to picture me,
Before I was who I claimed to be,”
You told not to dwell on old regrets,
Life marches on, the moon forgets,
And so it did, and so we went,
Losing track of all we meant,
To do or fight or be or say,
Before the weight of time got in our way,
Now your sun sets as my day begins,
But don’t tell me how tomorrow ends,
Just leave me with my windshield glare,
And the last lingering taste of moonlit air,
Still searching for some peace of mind,
In the future that you left behind.

And when he leaves just like the rest of them,
Do not let your tongue turn to thumbtacks

Stop trying to pierce the walls with your words
While you shuffle around the coatrack

When he moves thousands of miles away,
Cease to check in on him

Burn his t-shirt you took from his unmade bed
Watch your phone cascade into the depths

Do not wander his old town at night
Looking for the back of his head

Don't you dare knock on his previous roommate's door
Thinking he'll still be there

When he leaves on his "adventure"
Let the planes watch themselves

Let the clouds envelop the cool steel
Stop wondering if he's thousands of feet above

Do not pick up his cologne in the department store
His scent is no longer something you can crave

Do not search for air thick with his vapor
Leave behind his nicotine haze

Wake yourself from dreaming of his hands
Do not imagine his selfish desires

Erase intimate memories in his bed
Because his touch only caused fires

When he decides to leave you behind,
Let him

Then mend your wounds.

I’d like to be young Ewan MacGreg
or an NYC ***** circa 1977, spitting
over balcony railings and pushing
thumbtacks into white-washed
walls. All I’ve got for my
Ocean Voyage is a bed - and
so it becomes a boat and
the sheets are washed every day. And
from these clean travels I promise
I’ll mail you words on a regular basis
as long as you
promise to be waiting on the other
end, ready to pick up the envelope that
the greasy green teenager dropped you.
Ready to dig with bathrobe and trowel and
write me back about what you found
buried in the ink! As long as you
don’t disturb the soil. And remember, all
this excess comes from me, the
kid with the killer grin.

I found myself peeling the skin off post it notes
I was lost
You okay they said, like a statement than a question
People get annoyed like I’m adding oil into their drink water
When I sprout about my sadness
Relax, I’m not asking you to hold an anchor
I’m asking you to listen
Happiness is a bridge on fire with no one on it
Sadness is a metal detector through the streets
Depression is when the roof tops, knifes, and middles of bridges
Start being friendly

I’m stealing thumbtacks off walls
And putting the in people’s
Pizzas to teach them
How to swallow sadness

The problem is I like to pretend,
Which is to say I like to fall in love
We would date for a while
And then I would realize
I’m only in love with the story we made and the ***
Which is to say I was looking for poetic material

Like, Teenage poetry is awkward
And Young poetry is selfish
Middle-age poetry is about my ex-wife
Old poetry is boring
Dead or Near-Dead poetry is what we remember
And all poetry is filled with cigarettes stains and mistakes

Life is short. He says
I hand him a cheese grader
And said back
“Make like a slice of parmesan
and go **** yourself”

Life is long for the people who wait

I was on the bridge with the sun high above
Taunting me and pinching the back of my neck
Do It, You *****!
Around me were families
So I decide not to,
And never again;

What we have found of each other
will **** all of us

These words come from a mouth that never closes
With thumbtacks for teeth
and a sandpaper tongue

The monsters we create are soon to pass
Old blame needs new hosts
Throw the baby out with the bathwater

I live in a room without walls
I share my home with total strangers

We are captives but we are floating in the water
I built a boat out of inconclusive arguments
and slept on the floor of the sea

Finally.

Lost in the aftermath of heartache.
Changes I did not ask for or want.
You are just a part of the change now.
I still  had pictures of us on the walls.
Held in with colored thumbtacks.
We were drinking flutes of champagne.
At a café by the Seine in Paris.
They are all pictures taken with Kodak film
from a lost long ago time.
But I kept them.
Even after you left me,
I still kept them.
Sometimes,
I pull out an old Vinyl album
Sinatra sings our song,
“The summer wind.”
I dance as though
you are close in my arms.
Yes I am drinking again
why the hell not.
One morning I was lay
at the bottom of the stairs.
A bottle of whisky
spilled all around me.
Our friends found me
They tore down
all my old pictures of us,
and ripped them into pieces.
I had been told you were remarried
to someone other than me.
I threw the torn pictures
into my fireplace.
And lit them using my whisky
as an accelerant.
It should have taught me a life lesson.
That holding onto the past is unhealthy.
But instead I burnt my hands
putting the fire out.
I was not ready
to let them burn to ashes.
Not quite now.
Not just yet.

Feeling like
a calculator
with a decimal
key
that sticks.

Always incorrect,
missing
the point,
a fraction
of the
actual,
misplacing the
factual.

The letter-opener
laughs
at me.

Sees
my inaccuracy,
my inadequacy.

The thumbtacks
gather,
whispering into
the corkboard,
memos written,
regarding my
misaligned
mathematics.

The desktop
dings
the arrival
of an
email.

The office-supply
order
has arrived.

The scissors,
held
in an X,
slice through
packing tape.

Right there,
on top
of the steno-pads,
rests
my replacement,

new,

plastic bubble
intact,

decimal key
moves free,
better than
me,
no need
to see
to believe,
calculations conceived,
bourn correct.

The decimals
rounded to
the nearest
hundredth,

I’ll find
rest,

my long division
meeting measure
of
its remainder
at the bottom
of an
office
wastebasket.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018