you catch my gaze
with the warmest of eyes
which works to subdue
the cloudiness
of mine
you ask if i’m okay and
i simply reply that i am fine.

you pull me closer to you
a place where i can make out
the scents of your emotions,
taste each and every one of your racing thoughts;
the vibrations within my body move like the oceans
and both my heart and my tongue get tied up in knots

you tug on my hand and
my heart’s strings follow
leading me to the brumal bedroom
that has so many stories to tell,
if only anyone would
take
the
time.

you detail how things have been painfully hollow
and the mastered bit of my mind tells my ears to perk up
and my mouth to wait in line.
when the moment finally arrives
and your lips, lightly salted from your nervousness,
are placed on mine, i briefly pull away to smirk
and wipe away my gloss and its shine.
i do this ritualistically, if not religiously:
it goes on minutes before i greet you
and within merely seconds it is all washed away,
giving me excuse to touch your mouth although we both
know if i inquired, you would respond that i may.

skin like leather,
aged and tough
won’t let you in,
the past says i’ve had enough.
i’m in a battle with this
yearning to give you so much:
smiles and laughter.
inspiration and encouragement.
motivation and sincerity.
this pack of toilet paper.
i see these things with
exceptional clarity.

yet somehow i can’t let go of the fear that
you and i, me and you
whatever this is
will be outlived
by the very last roll.

i want to give you my heart as
freely as you’ve handed me yours.
i attempt to embrace this pulsing thing that methodically
squirms between my fingers
and find that i cannot.
i consider hiding it somewhere private for safe-keeping
but i do not.
i simply stand here in awe of this intricate, tangible thing you’ve entrusted me with;
one careless moment and your love could have just as easily been myth.
i observe and inspect with the largest of eyes,
bewildered and astonished,
i poke at it gently
and it fills my face with a look of surprise.
as i continue to prod just to see its reaction,
i look up and take note of your dissatisfaction.

sending me off to work with kisses and coffee and
magnetic conversation
with eyes tightly closed
and mouths opened wide;
i-love-yous, i-love-yous
spilling inside

i’m hoping that you
will overlook my
mistakes
and each of my
fears
i’m hoping that you
will hold my hand with
the fervor needed
to get me through
i’m hoping that you
can help me muster the courage
to take the plunge and
jump off.
right here.

i believe that you have
the power to erase
all of my instability
but this isn’t a race
and if we leap
and we fall
instead of take flight
i don’t think it would be
so bad to be with you
at the end of my life.

stereotypes are diminished (through the
actions
of
individuals):
micro level.
i suppose.
i suppose,
if you twist my arm,
or improperly digest my words
i might admit
that
arguments can be made for the ironic
deconstruction
of
oppressions.
but.
can we be more direct?
can we address this now?
“well i don’t think that’s fair.”
you say.
you hesitate.
you always fucking hesitate.
we agree to disagree.
who is ridiculously alone in this?
not just i.
it’s the nexus from which a tangled web of depression spews.
knit one and
pearl two.

this is how i define her.
her face is sad and
long.
dark,
as though you’ve just flicked off the switch;
she droops, heavy, like a flower
in its final days
yet her eyes still muster the energy
from those bright specks that lightly
sparkle in just the right light
the ones that dot her face oh-so tenderly
the ones that breathe into her words a little bit of life
it isn’t beautiful
it isn’t even pretty
just a painful display of the last bits of a person as they struggle
to appear appealing
and just come out shitty.

or
per
haps
him?
much too bewildering to wrap my tongue around.
i’ve lost the ability to identify the proper pronouns.
in any case;
the bemused one
recently told me that they have
yet to encounter someone who can rival
me
on individual responsibility
towards activism.
(and i imagine
that) they are
right.

on exhibit deep within
there is complete obligation
to do everything with what i have
everything
in my power
to fight for the end
of oppression for all people.
there shall be no “in the meantime”
no
“not now” or
“someday soon”.

i’ve been calling out your name
i’ve been yelling
i’ve been screaming for you
wanting you.
wanting you to do
everything you can and to do it
right.
fucking.
now.
i’ve already wasted twenty four years.
seven hundred and fifty seven million,
three hundred and ninety five thousand,
six hundred and seventy two seconds.
how many have you lost?

(the urgency is real.)

the alienation.
the oppression.
every single moment of every single day is unbearable to me now.
i can no longer stand idly by.
i can no longer bury these regrets deep
in my head.
the time to stand up has already passed
the clouds overhead weren’t this dark before
the smell of wet is on the tip of my nose
and all of a sudden
it permeates everything,
everywhere i go.
while we gleefully played with borrowed time,
as though it were the hottest thing a human hand
had ever hung onto.

the enormous and for most, unimaginable, privilege we possess
for no reason other than

chance

and
luck

and.
it could have all been a

fluke.

flubbed by a god that does not exist but seems to hold a place in the minds of every player
in this miserably
fucked up
game.

are you ready to get over the
guilt
and commit yourself to change?
doesn’t everyone deserve

dignity
safety

comfort
and

love?

and she holds me close until my skin becomes warm again
until i become alive again.
it will be awhile before my eyes will remember my smile.

as though it were the early morning
my breath forms shape
it takes place
out of
me
out of my own.

each step
one into the brisk, dark shaded
droplets of
space
slivers of expanse
then a foot
out of its home
slides quickly against the outer straps
and the little toes
soft and new
feel the rough, grainy
concoction underneath
but only brief
as it is lifted
and deep into the dirt
where brown stays forever beaneath
perfectly crafted nails and crevices
and they are dug even further in
twists and turns and giggle-glees
and you stay there a moment, until
again, you hunch to the breeze.

disquieted.
thinking i may have brought offense
to the borrowing of your words
i ask
rather, i state
i hope you don’t hate
that i hurriedly gathered every syllable that you neatly
aligned on the space in front of you
i hope you don’t mind
that i gobbled up every letter that
spilled from behind your teeth
i hope you don’t care
that i whisked away each part of speech
and every piece of punctuation, no matter how small
that ballooned from your throat in an upward poof of alphabet soup
and sifted lightly through the sky like confetti
before coming to rest in predestined places on the final layer of the big, blue marble.
like a song by the velvet underground
you whispered about your enthusiasm
to take up space
to be drained for all you’ve got
i want to promise to make you feel every word
you may not know it now, but you’ve asked to
be shaken and stirred
i am desperate to make each resonate
in a place where it is easy for meanings to become blurred
if i take every last one, and put it to good use
if i tie them up in crisp packages to be opened and delighted in
will you be quieted, will your thoughts become slurred?
as the kite grabs hold and takes you away
i cannot find a resolution, i cannot provide the solution
as much as i despise it, you’ve become my prey.

laying on the hardwood floor in a dimly lit downtown flat
nighttime, dark come soon permeates the air, watching the street’s lights dance across the ceiling
the filthy, finger-printed glass with paint chipped corners lets only a little bit of the outside in
create the silence
plug in and press into my ears
layer up
thrown over my shoulder is a bicycle, with barely working parts
make my way down these stairs, only three flights
back door asphalt smoking with wet and sparkle
crackcrack, sizzlepop
it smiles back at me when i part my lips
fly down burnside, as empty as a fresh canvas and eerily hushed
lock up, watch your breath
stings at cheeks now rosy
stacks of reference hardbacks and memoirs
and a handful of them with big, green eyes marking up respective novels with pens
i want to buy you lilies; cook you colors and scents
photograph the corners of your eyes
and dive into your mouth.

creeped in next to an oregonian.
without fail, there’s a little green tree squished between six raised numbers that floods my head with
so
much
shit.
as though you’ve ingested a homemade laxative
heavy.

hair in braids.
the sun beats and pulses through their frayed tips.
when will september announce its fall?
rays are my enemies, drops are my friends.
wet and slick and slip slip slippery.
i want to embrace you
encompass youth
whoever made you believe this is happiness
needs to learn that honesty is not synonymous with truth.

focusing intently on the curves and curls of those letters.
bitter, bite.
depersonalized, detached.
the long, rubber-like leaves startle my senses
in their run-in with my face.

what’s in hollywood, anyway
spending dollars as if they mean nothing
a granular amoeba, a moving organism
forming extensions, one by one, inside the core of my head
engulfing everything i ever knew
drop off your music-oriented, intellectual-sounding sheet
and we won’t call you back.

dying to meet the punks that dream inside these walls.
the ones that plot the inflicted eruption of the hoover dam.
the ones yearning to explore the untouched canyons of southern utah.
the ones that want to dismantle all hostile forms of government and
fuck shit up.

hushed meetings in discreet corner rooms upstairs, complete with grandiose ideas, chain smoking and molotov cocktails
incited: we are by the angers of those young, foolish girls
escalating frustrations to the level where you’d meet them.
is it not overwhelmingly relative

at what point do we digress,
evolve into weapon use not to defend ourselves -
to bring attention to a now completely misguided cause
who are they
and are they
fucking serious?

the prize goes to she who is able
to maintain sanity
in this never-ending cycle.

i angled a compact mirror for you
while you inspected your wound
and i really thought i’d shove a finger inside.
squirm.
how long was it
before you realized it was me
me, with the weapon in my arms
mantra after mantra
all of the cigarettes that
washed my head clean
after you thoroughly fucked
tabula rasa
for me.

i threw up all over that one blanket
i threw up all over our lives

you couldn’t wait for it to all
to go back to the way it was
i had nothing to go back to.
i didn’t stay
long enough to watch the flames go out on every
bridge i’d burned
was my lesson sincerely learned?
i cannot take everything out; off
for anyone anymore
and i hate to say it
but i never thought i’d look forward to my fortieth birthday.

you threw up all over that one pillow
you threw up all over our lives.

berlin. two days.
xs and os.

june twenty-sixth.
no money left.
when are you back
in the states?

oh. oh.

july first.
six nineteen am.
exotic stories.
haven’t heard from you in awhile.
i’m in hungary now.
been traveling europe for about
a month.
san francisco later this month if it all goes according to plan.

baci. baci.

i’m moving east of the river.
to make a home.
in a place with one of those
big porches.
i want to ask you to join me, especially
now that she’s gone, but last i
heard you were in athens, greece
feeling anything but normal.

you said you couldn’t leave the house.
we both know in florence
they are assholes.

i’m asking you to stay passionate,
but the other girl met you at the transfer that night, the one
when your friend’s band was playing,
the one from new york.
the one when the haight and the mission district became acquainted with
your smell
your sweat
and your exhaustion.
the one in which the sidewalk coaxed you on top of it, in its
standard sing-songy voice.
taylor begged,
but the cool concrete won your affections.

un bacione.
bronze medal belonging to me.
the title of third best is my own.

she and i began to deteriorate.
money was the issue
as it usually is with me.

and you said
kr.

i don’t have the time
but i miss you.
off to a rothko exhibit in rome
and
a
mario ceroli show.

but she’ll tell me stories about her
about boulder
about falling face first into a downward spiral of misery.
and i’ll listen.

la corto qui.

umbrellas in their cocktails.
more fresh wrinkles.
needing to sit on the porch
and play bridge
brag about grandchildren never forgotten and
talk goss with the gulls.
awfully nice.
hideous tacky fucking friend.
frump. frump.
bump. bump.
go & set it straight.
lots of shit & belligerence.
persuasive.
getting on.
quite well.
authentic trash?
in a way that you embrace and are proud of and…
good at.
the latter. obviously?
lunch.
something big is about to happen.
no existential crisis. no ooh.
happy without reason. freaks you the
fuck out, right?
uncertain what is being done and a longing
to know & to understand ambiguous feelings
first time, last time
zero.
enjoying the sun plus reading too much
bukowski and attempting to pilfer
really brilliant pete doherty journals
at book soup.
west hollywood, how great and neat and neat and great.
far too many years earlier and male.
raving. in desperate need of this cut.