An Ode to Frank O'Hara

Please excuse me for the day 

I had two awful dreams last night
in the first I failed out of school and
a bunch of women in ball gowns were
whipping me and in the second I was
giving the eulogy at my aunt's funeral except 
she's very much alive I talked 
to her on the phone last night about 
our end of the world party last October and 
how a hurricane much like Sandy swept 
across the state this time last year and 
it must be more than just a coincidence and 
when I should've been trying to get out of the house
I was reading wikipedia articles about the solar system
and the discovery of Pluto in 1930 and
how Pluto and its biggest satellite Charon 
are tidally locked and actually revolve around each other 
and I knew it was time to go when I realized 
I was watching youtube videos of Zooey Deschanel 
on some late-night Scottish talk show
and Mary called to tell me how a girl
at a halloween party dressed up as a venus fly-trap
railed a Smartie® off of her ass last night because 
she hadn't snorted anything since 1996 and 
suddenly I see a headline 
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED
and I'm sorry if my tone seems harsh but
who the fuck is Lana Turner?

The Wife

I am the sailor's wife, 
perched high on her peak,
eyes fixed on the sea,
waiting in vain for your ship 
to breach the horizon. 

I am the coal miner's wife
just after the tunnel collapse, 
standing solemnly at the tipple, 
waiting on bated breath 
for the elevator to pull you up
from your suffocating grave 
miles below. 

I am the astronaut's wife, 
gazing heavenward, stoic and unblinking, 
as your rocket leaves the stratosphere, 
praying that we have no problems, Houston. 
My heart breaking because we are worlds apart, 
and knowing that surviving the launch is only half the battle: 
what goes up must come down, Houston. 
Angels aren't supposed to fall from heaven either, Houston. 

I am the soldier's wife, 
all too aware of the real reason they took down your dimensions.
I dam the oceans in my eyes
as you wave from the aeroplane
in your new uniform. 

I am the alchemist's wife, 
knowing your weight in gold 
or another precious metal
could never 
replace your flesh. 

I am not your wife. 
We aren't even married, 
but I love you just the same. 

You're in the institution;
I wait for you to call. 

As the days pass, 
these desperate housewives
begin to join me for dinner. 
When I wonder aloud 
how long before
you'll get your phone privileges,
they smile and squeeze my shoulder. 

I hate them for their patience;
I hate myself for my helplessness. 

I tie together bedsheets, 
and head towards the window,
and when they try to stop me 
I tell them I don't have time 
for old wive's tales. 
I refuse to lose you 
the way they lost their own lovers:
because of a failure to act. 

The Call, 4:09 AM

Your mother calls

to inform me you're locked down

for a 72-hour observational hold

at the Trenton County psych ward,

and I should've realized 

something 

wasn't 

quite

right

when I saw you pulled a Britney Spears--

with an uncharacteristically militant haircut 

and a dye-job as cheap looking as the 

strawberry shortcake shade 

on the 10 dollar 

at-home coloring kit box--

amber as the alerts

now ringing like

air raid sirens

in my ears. 

I'm sorry

I assumed you'd just had a little to much to drink.

I send smoke signals from my cigarette;

I'm feeling particularly removed 

from you, across three state lines. 

I attempt to find solace in knowing

we're sleeping under the same constellations.

Do you see what I see?

Did the full moon trigger your psychoses? 

I would still love you if you transformed 

into a werewolf--I once fucked and octopus

in my dreams--surely, we could

make this work. 

I imagine you in your hospital bed, 

playing dead and eavesdropping 

on your roommate as he whispers 

to flowers in the wallpaper. 

You look good in white, I think to myself. 

I drag the rivers of my mind,

sifting for the scrap

of evidence that ties you

to my unarguably unhinged

contemporaries; 

no clues emerge,

only bodies breach the surface: 

Andy the meth-head, 

who was found by the cops

sneaking around in the ditches

outside of Mary's house two summer's ago,

wearing nothing but his birthday suit

and a rung of brass knuckles. 

Crystal, with her frazzled aqua-marine curls,

waltzing in the middle of the road--

in the dead of winter, in the dead of night--

in a soiled ball gown and 

twirling a fully decorated

artificial christmas tree

above her head. 

Bam Senate, who handcuffed himself

to a wheel chair, lifted the breaks

and thrusted himself down Big Ruth's driveway into rush-hour traffic--

into freedom, he told us after.  

And Holly, who convinced even me

that we weren't alone that night, 

that the blue car had followed us home, 

and didn't I see him, just now, in the window?

I thought you said you locked the door. 

You didn't turn that light on, did you?

You heard those footsteps too, 

right?

No. 

You're not the one whose crazy. 

Your father tells me you'll call 

when you get better, 

and I wonder if that means 

once the benzos kick in, 

or once the shock therapy 

shows signs of success. 

I begin to dissect every moment we ever spent together; 

your fervent infatuation could have just as easily been mania… 

No.

I feel embarrassed for questioning your authenticity. 

Still, 

I could 

drive myself 

mad 

wondering 

what they're doing to you in there,

and if you'll still love me 

when you get 

out. 

In California

In California, 

my cousin and I declare our own section of the sand

marked by our 75 cent woven mats from Walgreens

and impermanent territorial lines 

drawn into the beach. 

We consider poetry structures and Kant

and our inferior tans

as glistening bodies shimmer in the sun. 

In California, 

I want to stitch together

a mermaid tail from seaweed and kelp, 

braid octopus into my hair

and lounge aloofly--

like a supermodel--

in the salty surf. 

In California, 

I earn a sunburn I deserve for forgetting my SPF 15 at home. 

In California, 

being from the MIDWEST does not make you in with the WESTCOAST crowd, 

and I feel like a tourist as I am judged by the locals. 

But I feel sorry for them because they will never experience 

the magic that is winter

or drift asleep to the lull of falling snow. 

In California, 

I prefer evergreens to palm trees;

which would Jesus rather decorate

to celebrate his birthday?

In California, 

I cannot escape passive-aggressive coughs in my direction fro the fit, 

and cancer lectures from the lesbians as I sip smoke from my cigarette;

I simply smile at them and inquire about the rate of erosion, 

and if they're aware of the Golden State Sinking Theory. 

In California, 

I crave my boyfriend more so 

than I do when I'm in New York, 

and fail to account for time zones

when I call him at 11 PM--

Pacific Time. 

In California, 

we weigh a fraction less than we do out East--

something to do with body mass and equilibrium, 

and our relative distance from the tropic of cancer, 

and the moon's gravitational pull--my father says. 

In California, 

my heart is heavier, for in California, 

my grandmother passed several months ago. 

In California, 

I am intensely aware of my own mortality. 

In California, 

we struggle to refer to her in the past tense--

and my cousin has nightmares about traveling in airports

with her body. 

In California, 

I am searched by cold hands at the San Diego airport security checkpoint

and comforted by strange and gentle hands of my grandmother's dearest friends. 

In California, 

I move a woman to tears

with a song about birds at the memorial service, 

and she gives me the sparkling bluebird pendant 

hanging from her blouse. 

In California, 

I witness my father cry 

for the very first time in my life. 

In California, 

I toe the line where the sand meets the sea

and wonder what lies beyond. 

a return

I haven't posted here in almost two years, but I thought I'd resurface to share some of the poems I've been working on over the past couple of months; I'd like to get back into writing again. I miss it.

the crux.

I think I have an unrealistic and romantic view of how things should be:
I wield a metaphorical constitution of unattainable standards
that I know can never be met or plausibly satisfied.
And yet I have them, and hold onto them dearly like they are something sacred.
And I feel as though I might be setting myself up for failure with this mindset.
But is it wrong to want things to be right?
I want everything to be unrealistically well.
I want the state of my union to be well.
I want my affairs to be unrealistically perfect.
I want my pursuits in love to be unrealistically successful.
I want to be unrealistically swept off my feet,
safely falling head over heels.
I want an illustrious and chivalrous knight
of valor and class to unrealistically
come galloping over the hills
and save me from myself
and all those will ill-intent.

I am almost twenty-two years old,
and yet I want to be a young boy
who is taken in by and older and much wiser groom
and taken care of
and protected.
I want to nestle in the arms of another for safety.
I want security.
I want to be small and innocent and pure forever.

Except I am none of these things.

I have an unrealistic view of myself
(though, some aspects might be closer to the truth):
I feel incredibly daft and naive and unaware to
what’s actually happening in any given situation.
I like to pretend that I am quick-witted, clever and swift,
scheming and diplomatic,
but I wonder how often I am actually being played,
or unnoticing and unaware of the undertones
and unspoken terms and dynamics of conversation,
like the world is conspiring around me, not against me,
just around me,
and I am merely unaware of it all.
I am untrusting of people’s intentions,
Yet I give my brothers the benefit of the doubt in every instance.
But it is not possible to be both gracious and reserved simultaneously.
Can one be both selfless and selfish?
Vain and loving?

"Untitled" by Kevin Jones

I touch his back and he quivers. We talk about erogenous zones. I tell him I’m surprised he’s yet to find mine.
“I just figured it was your cock,” he jokes and we laugh.
He says, “My whole body seems to be erogenous.”
It’s true. I can make him hard by stroking the back of his knee or nibbling his earlobe. His skin feels like a silk worm, like freshly ripened fruit.
“I guess I’m just not used to being touched”, he tells me. I nod.
My skin has been poked and prodded by thousands of hands, seasoned and starving. I wonder what business I have with him. He’ll bruise so easily.

My (ex) boyfriend wrote this. He still makes me feel beautiful.