here we go again.

“Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Well I’ve been afraid of changing
‘Cause I’ve built my life around you
But time makes you bolder, children get older
I’m getting older too”
— “Landslide,” by Stevie Nicks



Sometimes I freak out when I see young children,
Teetering and scuttling about,
And realize, that at some point, they’ll be my age,
And I’ll be older.

My twenty-five year old friend was frantically telling me today
About how once you reach your twenties,
Time starts accelerating at an alarming rate
And that gauge called your age
Starts creeping higher and higher
And you keep getting older all the more quickly
And it’s absolutely terrifying.

I used to joke about being ready to retire
And how thrilled I was, anticipating spending the rest of my days
Either, a: sitting out on the front porch,
Chain-smoking and sipping from a tall glass of lemonade and vodka
And shaking my cane at the neighborhood children
Or, b: rolling around on the living room floor,
Fucked up on painkillers.
And then I realized,
Those were activities I already frequently partake in,
Minus the cane shaking,
And, given the current state of absolutely everything in America
I’m probably never going to retire.

Fuck.



And
My eyes are getting worse.
I’m slowly getting more blind.
I have my first floater.
It’s brown
And annoying.

I’m too young to feel old;
Am I too old to be young again?

My friend’s mother, who is dying in the hospital—
Whose only motivation, it seems, in her desperate state,
To stay alive is to get off of bed rest, in ten to twelve weeks,
So that she may sit out in the sunroom at the nursing home—
Joked about how exhilarating it was
To be wheeled around in the hall,
Because being confined to her bed
Was driving her insane,
Except I think that deep down, she was being dead serious.

She’s too young to die;
Her daughter is too young to not have a mother.



Also,
In 140 characters or less,
Can somebody please tell me:
Where the fuck did this year go?

@Zach mourning over a lost lover, driving, analyzing & reporting, folding paper birds, self-medicating, dwelling, drinking, writing, art-ing(?)

(tweeting?)

Semi-productive, at best.



There’s so much more I should be doing.


Fuck.


What?
What’s that you say?
The new year starts tomorrow?

Double fuck.


I keep forgetting that
Time stops for no one.
And
Once again
We find ourselves
Lifting our glasses
And sharing a toast
Because the new year is coming, whether we like it or not
(whether we’re ready for it, or not):

Here’s to the new year.
Here’s to fresh starts.
Here’s to productivity.
Here’s to civility.
Here’s to humility.
And to graciousness.

Here’s to stopping making up excuses for other people.
Here’s to stopping making up excuses for myself.
Here’s to mending fences.
Here’s to falling back in it again.
And to knowing my own worth.

Here’s to getting the fuck over it.
Here’s to decency.
Here’s to not waiting around for other people to change.
Here’s to baking a cake for someone who actually wants it.
Here’s to falling in love with someone who can return the favor.
Here’s to finding someone who actually gives a shit about me,
And not settling for anything less.

Here’s to love.
Here’s to meeting someone who can appreciate me for who I am,
Not for who I could potentially become.
To meeting someone who doesn’t think I have growing to do,
That my feet aren’t too small for the shoes I’m trying to fill.

Here’s to reading more.
Here’s to writing more.
Here’s to art.

Here’s to throwing caution to the wind.

Here’s to dancing,
Here’s to singing at the top of my lungs,
Here’s to jamming.

Here’s to cutting myself some well-deserved slack.
Here’s to letting go.

Here’s to Lady Gaga
And to the aliens.


Here’s to my friends,
Here’s to new beginnings,
And making it count.



Fuck, here we go again.

hot buttered rum

Christmas isn’t about decadence or pageantry,
It isn’t about the shimmering grandeur and elegance
Of black-tie affairs, with beautiful ladies trimmed in lace
And flowing bottles of sweet ripple and peppermint flavored champagne.
It isn’t about brown paper packages tied up with string
Or lovers passionately making out under the mistletoe;
Christmas is about family dysfunction:
At the table
All conversational etiquette,
Codes of mingling
And appropriate topics of debate
Are thrown to the wind.
Violent and swift hand motions
Punctuate arguments,
White-knuckled fists pound against the tabletop
Underscoring and emphasizing the poignancy of each claim,
Rattling nearby silverware and china.
Drinks spill, staining the tablecloth blood red,
Dishes fly like saucers across the sparkling, chandelier lit ceiling
And smash against the opposite wall
Breaking into a thousand porcelain pieces.
The shards are collected,
And catapulted in a showering bombardment
Of ceramic daggers and verbal darts.
And the war wages on.

Christmas is about finding ways
To avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
My aunt fixed me a drink:
A hot buttered cider, infused with brown sugar,
Cinnamon, nutmeg and rum—her most recent
Concoction spawning from her newfound
Rediscovery and love for the pirate’s ale.
There we sat, grinning, sipping away at the brew
From coffee cups, like we were casually drinking afternoon tea.
But we were armed with much more than merely a foamy beer coat.
Wrapped in warm suits of armor, we were prepared,
With mugs inappropriate for the occasion,
Filled to the brim with liquid courage,
Allowing us to bravely face the insanity
That is our family.

Christmas is about remembering:
I remember every Christmas, before my grandfather died,
He would sit in the armchair by the window,
Watching, patiently waiting for us to arrive.
No matter how late it was when we pulled in,
There he was, smiling, waiting to greet us
And invite us inside from the cold.

Christmas is about the delegation of work in the kitchen:
This year, I was the designated eye-wiper of the onion cutters,
Dutifully dabbing and blotting the tearing lids
Of the weeping choppers.

Christmas is about pretending to like the relatives
You secretly despise, and pretending you’re not gay,
And that you can’t keep the ladies away from you.

Christmas is about donning horizontal stripes
As to appear larger so that the vulture great-aunts
Do not swoop in for feeding.

Christmas is about midnight meals
Of buttered toast dipped in chocolate milk.

Christmas is about the conversations you have over cigarettes—
When you say you’re “going out for some fresh air”
But everyone really knows what you’re doing
And you feel like you’re fourteen again—
Conversations about the entanglement theory,
And how curing chest-colds by spitting into wood stoves makes perfect sense,
Because your bacteria is linked, regardless of where it is festering,
And if it is burning in the fire, it must be burning away in your lungs as well.
Conversations about the strange, orange glow
Of the sky of upper state New York at night.
And about the healing powers of hippy lettuce.

Christmas is about coming together with your designated few—
Your kindred company—despite whether or not you’re linked by blood,
And sharing what little you have with each other
So that you may survive this holiday together.

“"But at least we all will be together, if the Fates allow,
From now on we'll have to muddle through somehow.
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now"”

secret ovaries.

There are plenty of things I should be doing right now.
I should be dutifully examining the memoirs of Benjamin Franklin
And composing a thoughtful and eloquent essay, no less than six pages,
Addressing the overarching theme of self-reliance,
And using anecdotes and episodes from the biography as evidence
To illustrate Franklin’s attempts at self-representation and self-promotion,
And possibly taking mental notes
So that I may use his tips
To one day become a better human being.
I should be studying the human atlas.
So my self-portraits stop looking like
Post-pregnancy, post-menopausal women.
I should be watching my wallet, and saving my pennies.
I should be tuning into the news instead of blatantly
Ignoring the madness that is what turns the world.
I should be drinking water instead of lemonade & vodka and pretending its summer.
Alas, I blog.

Oh, the things we do to not do what we’re supposed to be doing.

We went to a play that one of my friends was directing,
And I was on the verge of tears the entire time.
It wasn’t so much the plot
As it was the actual acting that got to me.
The actors and actresses were just so incredibly convincing,
Which, I suppose, is the point,
To pretend to be someone you’re not
And make the performance believable.
Regardless, they tugged at my heartstrings,
Ripped the organ out of my chest,
Still beating,
Threw it in a blender,
Pureed it,
And gave it back to me in a Styrofoam cup when I left.
I could barely stomach it walking back to my car.
But I laughed with them in their joy
And ached with them in their grief.
And I wondered, if they were capable
Of so easily emotionally manipulating me,
If, conversely, their roles ever got to them as well,
And the pain they were expressing
Was real,
Or, if it was
Just acting.
But then again, I’m a sap.
I almost cried four dozen times this evening whilst watching “Up”.

I think I have secret ovaries,
And I’m forever PMSing.
Without the pain.
Or the bleeding.

(I too want to bawl whenever I see those “save the polar bear” commercials)

I’ll know I’ve met the right man
When he discovers my metaphorical ovaries
And doesn’t flee the state.


But isn’t that what we’re all looking for?
Someone who GETS us.
Someone who doesn’t think you’re crazy
When they come home to find you taping paper birds to the ceiling,
Or taking dead pictures of yourself,
Or drinking wine out of coffee cups,
While wearing a paper bag hat,
And having a field day with a hot-glue gun and old wallpaper.
Someone who doesn’t think you’re completely insane
For owning more garage sale trinkets than decent clothes,
Or eating cake for breakfast
And secretly wanting to possess the ability to bear children.

(even though I don’t want children, not never).




I’m I sharing too much?
Fuck it.
This is why we write, isn’t it?
This is why we make art.
Because, when it boils down to it,
We’re all just sitting there screaming
At the top of our lungs
And no one seems to hear us
And we just want someone to notice
For someone to acknowledge our existence
Just for a brief second,
To reassure us that our convictions stand firm.
And that we’re not total basket cases.



I bought a cinnamon broom
And nailed it above the door.
Supposedly they’re supposed to bring luck to the household.
We’ll see.
I almost bought some mistletoe,

(I want nothing more than to kiss someone under the mistletoe.)

But decided against it.

(Who here am I going to kiss?)











At least we have a tacky Christmas tree,
Trimmed with tacky dollar store ornaments
And if I stand next to it, I don't feel so tacky.

something to live for.

I need revitalization.
I need reassurance.
I need to feel like I’m doing things right.
I need to know there is a means to the end.
I need to know that this isn’t all in vain.
I need to know this isn’t the last call.
I need to know there is something else coming out there.
I need something to believe in.
I need a renewed sense of hope.
I need a slap in the face.
I need a cold shower.
I need a shot of something strong.
I need to recalibrate.
I need to reevaluate.
I need something thoroughly modern.
I need to feel like I haven’t passed my prime.
I need to feel like I haven’t lost my novelty.
I need to feel like I haven’t lost my motivation.
I need to feel like I haven’t lost my vision.
I need to feel like I haven’t lost my sanity.
I need to feel like I’m not crazy.
I need to know it’s only a matter of time.
I need to know that it’s worth the wait.
I need to know that you’re somewhere out there.
I need to know where you are.
I need to know when you’re going to get here.
I need to know your phone number.
I need you in my bed.
I need to feel you next to me.
I need to feel my chest pressed to yours.
I need to feel your heartbeat.
I need to know your motives.
I need to know your intentions are pure.
I need to know you won’t paint me in watercolors.
I need to know you won’t wash me away.
I need to know you won’t wash yourself away.
I need something worth fighting for.
I need something to keep on marching for.
I need something to shovel out for.
I need something to keep on keepin’ on for.
I need something to dance for.
I need something to sing for.
I need something to celebrate for.
I need something to live for.

your weight in gold.

It’s December.
The days are getting noticeably shorter.
The sun is waning.
I can feel my seasonal starting to kick in.
The end is near.
But, we are prepared for the approaching dark ages.
We know this ritual all too well.
All the windowsills
Are slowly being filled
With flickering candles.
Electric ribbons—
Kaleidoscopic cobwebs
Bleed from the bare wooden wrists
Of the sleeping trees.
We turn on every light in the house,
Even the chandeliers and closet lights,
And break out the natural, full spectrum bulbs.
Everything is illuminated.
There’s really not much else we can do at this point
But bundle, nurse ourselves with bottles of whisky,
Grab our shovels
And prepare
To bravely and gallantly dig ourselves
Out of winter.

I think I successfully avoided the swine flu.
Conversely, I think I’ve earned my health.
I’ve spent years unintentionally exposing myself to illness,
Trading germs with lovers and strangers alike,
Culminating an impenetrable immune system of steel.
I will miss the codeine though.
Maybe I’ll fake tonsillitis.

There was a brilliant blue ring around the moon last night.
It was beautiful, but eerie as fuck:
Sailors believed it signifies bad weather.
Old wives' tales claimed it is a sign of bad luck.
I’m convinced it was a marker of the apocalypse.
The scientists, however, chalk it up to the refraction of moonlight
Shining through ice crystals suspended in the clouds.
But I hate being disillusioned
And resolved that I’d rather not know the truth:
"You may tear apart the baby's rattle
And see what makes the noise inside,
But there is a veil covering the unseen world
Which not the strongest man,
Nor even the united strength
Of all the strongest men that ever lived,
Could tear apart"
- Francis Pharcellus Church “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus”
Needless to say, it rained all day.


And when it rains, it pours.





(I should build a raft.
And I’ll attach little paper boats
To the back of it
And sail to the gas station.
Because lord knows how I’m
Always running low on cigarettes)




I briefly considered grief counseling as a possible profession:
I was talking to my aunt about this back in August
And we both concluded that no one knows pain
Quite like people who have actually experienced it,
And that we were both more than qualified candidates for the job,
Because we have mastered the art of mourning.
But then I remembered that I never actually take my own advice
And that I should probably actively practice what I preach
If I’m going to counsel the grieving.
And decided I’d rather be unhealthy and destructive instead.



Thanksgiving was sufficiently awkward;
I was thankful for the liquid courage supplied at dinner.



I am, however, thankful for my friends.
Home was refreshing, as it always is.
We gossiped, planned, conspired
And earned our calluses and blisters
In a magical jam session.
We practiced witchcraft,
Wrote spells and read our fortunes,
Discussed micro-science,
And the strange phenomenon where siblings convince themselves
That it’s perfectly acceptable to throw things at each other
(if you have a brother or sister, you this animalistic rage and exchange.)
We freaked out about the power of technology and the government,
Traumatized ourselves after watching UFO videos on the Internet
And the insanity that is lady gaga,
Decided that lady gaga and Dakota fanning were probably aliens
And briefly considered falling off the grid completely
To live in a house out in the middle of nowhere
To be one with nature.

And ride horses.

And then promptly decided that that was a terrible idea.



My grandma was telling me
That back in the forties, when celebrities got divorced,
The husbands would give their ex-wives their weight in gold
As compensation.



But I don’t want a pound of flesh, or your weight in gold, just your love.

on art, an excerpt

...But is that not something we inherently and automatically do? Is that not our duty and obligation as humans, to share what little we have with our brothers so that we can improve ourselves and grow together both individually and collectively in the process? Aren’t we all in this together? Aren’t we all essentially doing the same things? Trying to make sense of our situations, spinning straw into gold, twisting wool into a unified thread and trying to weave these strands into a cohesive fabric of understanding? It seems selfish to assume that an artist would create a piece of art with intentions to not share it with the world, because in creating that work, the artist is putting forth his personal investigations, analyses and conclusions. I do not see how withholding or altering this information would be productive or progressive. Doctors share their findings so that we can cure our ill; grandparents pass down their wisdom, anecdotes and personal histories so that we can learn from their pasts; mothers, fathers and teachers pass down their knowledge of the world so that we are better equipped to survive this lifetime. Whether or not we realize it, we all do this: we all compare notes with our friends and ask our designated confidants for advice and opinions for guidance. Art is just another form of that conversation.
Art is about communication. Talking, discussing, dialoguing, discoursing, debating, conversing: these are the conduits through which we exchange ideas, express thoughts, feelings, opinions, emotions, hopes and fears. Sharing the details of our lives is how we connect to other human beings. As artists, we choose to communicate visually, and without this capacity, this ability to make a truly intimate and meaningful connection with another living being, art is not worth making.

baking cakes part two: back in the kitchen (blessings of an ex lover)

So.






It’s been about a year since the great cake fiasco, and for some reason, you find yourself reminiscing. Perhaps it is the familiar fragrances of fall: burning wood, lighter fluid, chimney smoke trailing through the brisk night air, infused with cheap booze and cigarettes; the aromas of autumn, cinnamon, tart apple cider and whiskey, all soaking in the spices of the wet leaves and the melting pumpkins. Perhaps it is the familiar feeling of sleeping under piles of quilts and blankets, wrapped in a mass of fleece that is your oversized sweater, and you’re quite sure you can see your breath when you exhale even though you’re inside. Or perhaps listening to Regina Spektor just makes you nostalgic. Regardless, you’re remembering. And you’re doing what you do best, examining the evidence, checking the facts, spinning wool into thread and drawing conclusions; analyzing, and reporting.

You remember. You remember the stranger, who became the friend, who became the lover and then the estranged. You remember the guitars, the serenades, the poetry, the magic. You remember the intoxicated banter, the lustful affairs, wasting the day away with someone you thought truly cared about you, who you didn’t have to censor yourself around out of fear of being misconstrued or deconstructed. You remember the jesting, the hooting, the folly and the fun. You remember the booze, the lust, the sex, the bedroom ceiling. You remember the strength of his hands, the landscape of his body, the cruxes of his arms, his warm breath on your neck. You remember the couch and the kiss. You remember the workshop and the ottomans. You remember the doubt and the self-consciousness. You remember the alienation and the self-medication.




You remember the kitchen and the cake.




You remember baking that cake, putting your heart into it. You remember being so excited to give it to him.

And you remember the moment you did give it to him:

“…I made something for you, you tell him, as you pull your cake out of the refrigerator.

He looks at the cake, and then he looks at you. His smile fades. And your heart sinks.

Shit
Fuck.
Shit.
you think to yourself: I’ve made a terrible mistake.

you realize that your friends were right, and that you're fucking stupid

What do you think?, you ask, wanting to crawl in a hole and die


I don’t know, he replies,
I don’t know how I feel about this kind of stuff

And you know he doesn’t want your cake.

it's okay, you say,
but it's not.

it was nothing, you say,
but it was definitely something.”

(baking cakes: a parable
November 30th, 2008)

You remember loving him.
You remember your heart breaking when he didn’t love you back, when he didn’t want your cake.
You remember wanting to die.
You remember hating him.
You remember hating yourself.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming him.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming yourself.
You remember dwelling.
You remember deconstructing yourself.
You remember thinking you weren’t good enough.
You remember playing out impossible and unrealistic scenarios of what could’ve been, if only you were a little older—if only you were that fine wine, opened at the right age—if only you were a little wiser, if only you were more clever, and witty, and charming, and suave. If only you were everything that you just weren’t.
You remember being unhealthy.
You remember smoking too many cigarettes, and drinking way too much, and not sleeping.
You remember being jealous.
You remember hoping he felt guilty.
You remember being indifferent.
You remember pretending you were over it.
You remember realizing that you weren’t.
You remember worrying that others wouldn’t care for him the way you did.
You remember knowing there were other things you should’ve been worrying about.
You remember the months to follow.
You remember trying to distract yourself.
You remember that not working.
You remember wanting to just give the fuck up.








And then, something happened.
Something that you don’t remember.
Something that you didn't expect.

Somehow, you got over it.

And, what’s more strange, somehow, you became happy for him.

And then, SOMEHOW, you became happy with yourself.

AND THEN, SOMEHOW, despite everything, you find yourself back in the kitchen, baking cakes and taking on the world.

And you wonder how you got here, and then you remember:

“This is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
You walk in arm and arm
And hope it don’t get harmed
And even if it does
You just do it all again.” –Regina Spektor “On the Radio”



And you know everything is going to work out just fine.

better than bad.

There is a certain stillness to the morning,
The kind of ineffable hush that can only be compared
To the sound of falling snow.
Those who have really listened—
And can tune in to this frequency—know this score:
The hum of the heater overhead,
The drone of the speeding cars,
The dull roar of the distant highway;
All of these subtle sonances
Harmoniously merging into white noise.
Then, a familiar numb seizes
Enveloping its captive
In a comatose bliss.
Padded walls; a cozy straitjacket,
Drifting off into the silent lull
Of the falling snow.
It is this absence of sound,
As the crystalline doilies kiss the ground,
That resonates the loudest.
And there are no shadows on the walls,
Only moments of light—pale and fair.
Blues and lilacs melting into the backdrop;
This kind of hazy overcast emerges,
And everything is muted, soft and still.

Halloween was magical:
Thursday, I went to the hood for a little bit to see some friends,
And the dichotomy of the neighborhood children
Playing in the leaves with a crackhead
Was both beautiful and bewildering.
That evening, I sat on the patio,
Enjoying rare and unexpected remnants of summer’s warmth,
Shooting shit and chasing doses of vitamin c
And Tylenol cold and sinus
With Crown Royal.
Later, in the burbs, we went on a night reconnaissance,
Traipsing through backyards à la the blair witch project.
The night air was warm, the sky was eerie,
Painted in glowing oranges, greens, purples and grays.
The moon was full; it looked apocalyptic.
The ground was carpeted in leaves,
The evening smelled like incense.
It was beautiful.
At one point, it started to rain.
So we danced, because if you’re going to get wet
You might as well dance.
The following night, on Halloween, we painted our faces
And stayed in, because there was nothing out there for us,
We visited friends, trading tales over the candles,
Catching each other up on the gossip, reading our fortunes
And cackling like witches.

(Old friends made contact:
It seems as though everyone get nostalgic
Around the holidays.
It’s a strange phenomenon, remembering the past.
What were you doing this time last year?
Who were you sleeping with?)



I’m in love with life.
I love how I can still get together
With my friends, despite being dispersed
About the nation, away from each other
For weeks or even months at a time—
And we can still come together,
Collecting on the back patio with drinks in hand,
And pick up where we left off,
And it’s like summer never ended.
I love my nose,
I used to hate it, but after deciding
It resembled George Washington’s—
Dignified and impressive—
It started to grow on me.
I love overhearing anecdotes:
“…my grandpa used to tell me he loved
When I came in from the cold in the winter
Because my cheeks were rosy…”
I love how receptive my friends were
To my coming out.
I love the irony
Of my rant about my distain for the flamboyant gays
With their sparkles and boas and high heals,
When I was wearing face paint and make up at the time.
I love what’s happening.


I slept with someone recently.
I don’t mind one night stands:
Two humans being human
Following the directions
And going through the motions
That every human inherently knows.
It’s beautiful. It’s reviving.
It made me feel human again.
Even if nothing comes of it,
And even if it was just for one night.
It was nice while it lasted.
It was nice falling asleep with someone.
And it was nice waking up to someone.
I’ve been living my life with no expectations,
Because no expectations means no disappointments,
Only surprises.
What I’ve learned is, it’s better
To make the best of a situation
Even if it’s not going to go anywhere in the future,
Just to enjoy and appreciate it for what it is,
And to have something for the time being.
Because that’s better than dwelling.
And it’s certainly better than nothing.

charts.

sometimes, when it's late at night and I can't sleep, I make charts:





(I feel like these might come in handy later, maybe)

sometimes I take up origami.
and before I know it,
my room is carpeted in paper flowers.

I need to stop being a night owl.
I'm always the last one up.
I always lock the doors,
and blow out the candles.
I need ambien.

on coming out, despite not wanting to, and being human.

I wrote this last year.
I made a friend read it at the open podium because I was too scared.
In lieu of national coming out day, I think this is appropriate, and pertinent,
And definitely worth sharing:

……..


I am not an activist.
You won’t see me marching, or boldly and proudly bearing the beautiful colors of the rainbow.
I am not that brave.

The truth is, I’m scared.
I’m scared to death about how you will react when you find out.
I’m scared of the deafening silence that will surely follow. Your shock, your expression—frozen, like a living statue, cold as ice, the color draining from your face as your heart suddenly stops, breaks, and plummets to the pit of your stomach. I don’t want to hear the sound of your vomit splashing against the drain of the kitchen sink. I’m scared to watch as you age, instantly, right before my eyes: your hair graying, your skin wrinkling, your organs failing. I don’t want to be the source of your anger; strings snapping, glass breaking, the walls shaking as your blood boils. I’m scared of bursting capillaries, bulging veins, staccatoed breaths, bitter tears, your white knuckles, your rage, your disgust—your obvious pain.
I’m scared of your rejection; I’m scared of being abandoned.
I’m scared of disappointing you.
I’m scared of losing you.

Unfortunately, there’s no testing the waters in this situation. It’s black and white.
There are no shades of gray.
You’re either in, or you’re out.

So here I am: locked in the car, bound in the backseat, trying to sort out, digest and make sense of this impossible jig-saw puzzle, with only a handful of pieces—none of which fit together—and no hints, clues, tips or phone calls, magic lamps, bread crumb trails or wishing wells to guide me, to let me know if the coast is clear, to let me know if it’s okay to make my move. Here I am, feasting on the scraps of a limited supply of hope, running on empty and praying for the apocalypse.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tired of walking on eggshells, of constantly tiptoeing on pins and needles. I’m sick of keeping secrets, of self-medicating, of temporary mends. Of after hours meltdowns and sleepless nights, of slick blades and seeping wounds, of the masochism, the self-destruction, the self-deprecation. Of substitutions, of rerouting, burying and hiding pain.

I am sick of feeling invisible.

I know it’s no way to live, but I don’t know what else to do. We march. We carry on. We persist. We drive. We have to. Stopping isn’t an option. We do what we have to just to survive. And as much as I’d like to prick my finger on a spinning wheel and sleep through this lifetime, I can’t. It’s impossible.

It’s impossible because, for some fucked up reason, this universal notion exists reasoning that because I’m gay, I must be abnormal, an alien, a leper; somehow, because I’m gay, that makes me less of a person.
And you wonder why I refuse to come out?

What you fail to realize is this:
I have the same fears as you do,
I have as much pain as you do,
I’ve lived as much hell as you have,
I’m just as human as you are,
We all have the same parts,
We all have beating hearts,
We’re all wired the same way
We’re all on the same journey, swimming for dear life, trying not to drown in the same torrent, surging through the same vein.
We all want to accomplish all these seemingly impossible things:
We all want experience love, to fill our voids with something beautiful, something substantial and something permanent.
We all want to feel valued,
We all want to be accepted
We all want to be loved
And we all want to be respected.

This isn’t a phase. It’s not a disease or an infection.
I’m not contagious. You can’t catch it.
This wasn’t a choice. I wasn’t converted.
I was born this way.

All I am asking for is respect.

Until you can do that, I’ll be waiting, impatiently, from inside the closet.

........








I realize, by sharing this, I’m essentially outing myself.
And I’m motivated to share this, not so much by a sense of obligation via membership
Than I am by a personal sense of duty.
Because this is more important than just me.
Whether I like it or not, I’m a part of this movement.
And there aren’t many people out there singing for our side.
I’m usually never one to let others speak for me
And for a while, this was one instance where I kept my lips locked.
But I’m starting to realize
If I’m not going to stand up for myself, who will?


This is real ya’ll.
This is really happening.
So here it is—
Without the sequins
And the feathers and the glitter
And the rainbows.
And all that other stupid bullshit.
I’m gay as fuck.
But, I’m also more than that:
I’m human.
Just like you.

bathwater.

I think
Falling out of love
Is like getting out of the bath:
It’s difficult to bring yourself to do it.
And at first, it’s a process and motion
You don’t even want to go through with.
It doesn’t matter that your fingers and toes resemble prunes,
Or that the water isn’t nearly as warm as it was initially,
And it’s frighteningly murky; you can’t see the bottom,
And you think you might be fermenting—
Because when you’re in the bath, nothing else matters.
You have no obligations, no duties or commitments.
You don’t have to uncomfortably mingle and make trifling conversation,
Or be cordial and eloquent and dazzling and exude proper etiquette,
Or keep resolutions or promises,
Or actively participate, or consciously involve yourself in anything.
You don’t have to make nice, or kill em’ with kindness,
You don’t have to smile when you’re thinking of killing yourself.
You don’t have to get over it if you don’t want to.
And, for a brief moment, you can just float in the foam—
Detached—and let life pass you by.
For you know all too well
That once you breach the soapy surface
It’ll just be you against the universe.
Only you, standing there naked and shivering and dripping and alone,
And you’re scared, and you can’t remember
What life outside the porcine tub is like,
And you don’t know if you even want to remember.
You’d rather drown than deal.
Sulk in the suds than cope.
And yet, there you are—sitting in the very filth
You wanted to wash yourself clean of.
It seems kind of silly, soaking in dirt and oil
And the rotting roses and spoiled wine; the broken heart stew,
Expecting to be cleansed by the brew.
The same way it seems kind of silly
Caring about someone who doesn’t care about you.
So you surface, and emerge,
Because you have to,
Because life isn’t pausing for you,
Because the world isn’t stopping for your grief,
As much as you wish it would.
You can’t breathe.
You feel like you’re dying.
So you bundle, and hold yourself.
And then, slowly, by degrees, you start to dry.
Slowly, you start to live again.
You appreciate the northern hemisphere and the seasons,
And cleanse bad blood,
And mend burnt bridges,
And have heated grammar debates on Saturday nights,
And embrace the crazy in you, because
"Some people never go crazy,
What terrible lives they must lead".
And you make jokes in the hospital,
And plot, assigning roles for the post-apocalyptic world,
And huddle on the couch with friends and gossip and scheme,
And appreciate your wacky village in the post-modern age,
As motley and sorry as it may be, because at least you have a village.
And you sing, despite what you’re hacking up,
And burn your hopes and dreams and toenails in a cauldron
Letting the ashes sail to the heavens
And hope that the universe answers your prayers.
And even if it doesn’t, it’s okay.

“Life will break you.
Nobody can protect you from that,
And living alone won’t either,
For solitude will also break you
With its yearnings.
You have to love.
You have to feel.
It is the reason you are here on earth.
You are here to risk your heart.
You are here to be swallowed up.
And when it happens that you are broken,
Or betrayed, or left, or hurt,
Or death brushes near,
Let yourself sit by an apple tree
And listen to the apples falling
All around you in heaps,
Wasting their sweetness.
Tell yourself that you tasted
As many as you could.”

- Louise Erdrich, the painted drum, p. 247


bitter.

A more adequate title for this might be:
“On giving up”

So
I’ve been comparing notes with friends,
And it appears we’ve all, somehow,
Collectively and simultaneously
Come to the conclusion—without actually discussing
The matter until recently—that we’re done with this lifetime.
We can’t do much more with the cards we’ve been dealt
And it’s not that we want a new hand,
We just want the game to be over.
No, the realistic possibility of a suicide club
Is not what should be raising red flags,
Rather, the more salient item worth extracting
And underscoring is the fact that
We’re all just losing hope.
Perhaps our generation is just lazy and apathetic.
Or, something else is afoot.
Now, I might just sound like
A poor little rich boy, whining and being emotive
And inventing conspiracy theories
Because things aren’t going as planned,
(Because the days are already getting noticeably shorter
And it’s getting colder, and the dishes keep accumulating,
And my hair only looks good when I don’t wash it,
And keep forgetting about the plums I buy
Only to find them rotting away when I do remember them,
And I can’t actually paint or play the piano,
And painting and playing the piano
Aren’t actually productive or practical pursuits
Because there isn’t even a job market for artists,
And I can’t get to bed at reasonable hour,
And I definitely drink way too much,
And I’m not worried about my carbon footprint,
And it’s too taxing to keep track of the pain
Of the surrounding villages even though I wish I could,
And I’m single and more than aware and bitter,
And even if I wasn’t, it’s not like
I could legally marry the one I loved anyway.)
But everything is relative, right?
And this occurrence isn’t isolated.
I’m not the only one.
We’re all becoming less inspired
And rapidly losing hope… together.
Which is morbidly uplifting.
But also troublesome.
We’re all waiting for some sort of
Divine intervention:
To peel back our chocolate wrappers
And find that golden ticket,
Or for the law of attraction to finally kick in,
Or for the sky to fall,
And for the world to end.
Why does it seem like everything
Is out of our hands?
Why does it seem like
“Nobody is steering this ship.
We're all just looking nervously
At the approaching iceberg
& wondering if we can raid the bar”?

What is happening?
And why don’t we care?

If I had the time to figure it out
And report back to you, I totally would.
But right now, building a seed vault and erecting
A doomsday bunker seems like
A better use of energy.





“And if I had the patience and I had the money
And I had the humor and I had the offer
And the space and the time and the talent
And I had the power and I had the reason
And the virtue and I had the cunning
And I had the status and I had the wisdom
And I had the audience and the admission
And I had the method and I had the quiet
And I had the motive and the story
And I had the money and I had the time
(And you had the slightest clue what all the fuss was for
All of the times that I say that I’ll do it
It’s nine-hundred-nine that I secretly ruin
It’s good that I tell you this over and over
Over the rainbow and out through the back door)



Then I just might try

If only I could prove it
If only I weren’t stupid
If only I could torture
All the people who can do it

And if I had an offer to be better
I’d decline

And if that were more awful to consider
I’d be fine

And if it were all my fault
That I’m bitter…”

living a still life.

I feel like my life has ground to a halt,
Even though I know, for a fact, that time is passing:
The vegetables in the still-life
I’ve been painting every day
Are aging—I can see their sides hollowing in,
Their posture shrinking.
The once stretched leathery hides
Of the bell peppers are drying up
And starting to wrinkle,
Collapsing into cavernous creases.
The plums are pruning, the casings of the
Formally ripe tomatoes are starting to sag,
Collecting and piling in ripples at their bases,
The skin of the eggplants is folding—drawn, like pursed lips.
The apples are browning, their bruises exposed,
The lemons are molding, coated in a frosting
Resembling cobwebs,
Time is passing,
And I document these changes in my paintings,
The white of my canvas
Slowly disappearing under thick layers
Of oil paint and turpentine.
The evidence is all around me:
I accidentally grew a beard)
(I finally shaved; I look twelve);
Time is passing.
I witness funeral processions every day,
People are dying; time is passing.
The dishes pile to overwhelming heights in the sink;
Time is passing.
The tide of cheap red wine
Ebbs away from its bottle
And into my gut;
Time is passing.
The days are growing noticeably shorter;
Time is passing.
Still, I feel like my life is on pause.
I don’t feel like an active participant.
“I’m inside a still-life, with the other absentee”.




I went out to lunch with a professor the other day,
And he told me all about how he married
His college sweetheart,
And how wonderful it all is,
And how he couldn’t imagine being
With anyone else.
Then he asked me if I had a sweetheart;
I told him I didn’t.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “when you find the one,
you’ll know it”, he assured me.


Later that night, I was debating
Whether or not I should wear nice jeans
To a friend’s birthday party
“Why does it matter?
Who here are you going to impress?”
One of my housemates replied,
Half in jest, but bluntly glossing the truth
Silver with sarcasm.
Ouch.
“Good point,” I conceded,
And I didn’t tell her
About how I was also debating
Trimming my pubes.








We always want what we can’t have.
I’m sick of coming home to an empty bed.
(I’m also sick of whacking off)
I long for human touch.
I want somebody to harmonize with.
I want an excuse to trim my pubes.
I want somebody to love.



But you can’t always get what you want,
Even if you probably deserve it.












I guess, sometimes, the only thing you can do
Is dance in your room to Tegan & Sara
Because, despite what you tell yourself,
You’re still not over it.
But at least you’re dancing
And that must be some kind of step
In the right direction.

Right?










“He’s just a boy what on earth am I thinking?
The billions treasure each drop they are drinking—
And I just want to make it through the night
I just want to know that I’ll survive
Everything is relative, that’s right
But you’ve never suffered a day in your life.
Poor little rich boy playing piano
What good is practice if you haven’t learned by now?
There are no starving Chinese in your bedroom
The finger that points is attached to your elbow.”

white after labor day.

My new house creaks,
Especially when everyone
Is sleeping soundly,
And the eerie orange glow
Cast by the street lamps
Is pouring in through the cracks in the curtains,
And the shadows are dancing
On the plaster walls of my bedroom,
And I can’t differentiate the stars
From the military jets soaring above,
And only the suspicious, windowless vans
And empty city buses are cruising about.

We live by the cemetery.
I see funeral processions every day.
I am constantly reminded
Of my own mortality.

But, I’m learning to live again:
I sing while I wash the dishes,
And watch as my hands prune.
I sit out on our front porch—
The roof supported by pillars
Resembling roman ruins—
And it’s like being at the theatre,
The porch railing separating myself—
Perched in my plastic loge chair,
Chain-smoking—from the stage.
The wildflower garden beneath me, filled with
Trumpeting perennials and hibiscus,
Manned by the humming birds and honey bees,
Acts as the orchestra pit.
And I watch the play unravel before me.
The cast: the ghetto blasters rocking out in their cars,
The hipster in his mid-thirties—
Decked out in his color coordinated pastel threads,
Aviator glasses,
And a thoroughly 70’s haircut—
Zooming by and honking and waving frantically
On his seafoamgreen moped.
The apathetic mailwoman, delivering letters and bills
To the wrong addresses.
The school kids scampering home,
The drunken rednecks, cursing and staggering about,
The meth-heads babbling to themselves,
The haughty hookers stomping down the cement sidewalk catwalk,
The ghetto boys trying to look intimidating:
I smile at them; they ignore me.
(It’s good to be in the hood.)
At night, I entertain company, and we drink
Boxed wine from plastic placentas,
And pretend to be super fuckin’ classy,
Fully aware that the booze won’t taste any less cheap
When sipped from elegant crystal glasses.

(I’ve been drinking red wine almost every night,
Staining my lips purple.
I have to wash away the evidence every morning.)



I went home for Labor Day
And visited friends.

(It’s nice when people run
Their schedules by me
Just to make sure I’m available
To see them—it makes me feel important,
Like I’m worth something:
Worth time, worth energy,
Worth fractioning out
A slice of day.
Do I sound like a douche bag?
I realize I’m no crackerjack prize,
But it’s nice to know that people
Actually want me around.)

Friday, we drowned ourselves in tequila,
And pretended to be the alcoholic bitches on vh1,
Rubbing what we spilled into our legs like lotion.
One of the most pertinent and meaningful lines of the evening
Came from the drunkest man in the house:
“Do wha’makessssyouu happy,
you only live life once,
so’njoy it, and do what makesssyou happy”
he slurred, as he handed us his booze.
I’ll raise my glass to that.
Here’s to doing what makes you happy.
And here’s to trying to be happy, despite the odds.
Cheers.

I listened as a crack-head explained
How liberating it was to break her own dishes,
And somehow, it made sense:
How, when someone else breaks your dishes,
It’s frustrating, but when you’re the source
Of the destruction,
It’s freeing and therapeutic.
I nodded and emphasized.

I porch-sat with a good friend,
And noted that
The leaves were turning red,
And the daises were dead,
And it hit me that
Summer was actually ending
And fall is right at our heels.



My hair is finally growing out.
I’m glad. I missed it. I feel like fall.
It’s funny how much people’s hair grows
While you’re away.


My friends’ hair grew.
I visited my clairvoyant friend—the virgin of the couch
With a haircut like Lady Gaga’s—
And her sister, the women’s studies lesbian—
Who updated me on her personal study of women—
Their hair grew.
And we watched nonsensical Japanese films:
They were unnerving.
We chain-smoked and cackled,
And we resembled a coven of witches.
And we fantasized about how jolly it would be
If we really were a coven of witches,
Casting spells and hexes on our enemies,
Brewing surefire potions for true love,
Tending to an herb garden
Of mistletoe, lavender, rosemary, sage and thyme,
Worshipping the moonlit nights
And flying across the midnight sky on broomsticks.
Maybe I should drop out of art school
And take up witchcraft.
Then I wouldn’t have to paint any more still-lifes,
Or grow up.


Is it pathetic that
One of my main plans for the future
Is for the apocalypse to finally arrive,
Or for the aliens to invade,
And beam me up off of this planet
Just so I can avoid growing up?
I don’t think so.


At least,
I’m starting to finally feel like myself again.
My heart is finally healing,
I am finally breathing.
No more self-loathing,
Or playing out impossible
And unrealistic scenarios,
I’m not sure what
I’m supposed to be doing with myself.
But at least I can consume myself
With something new,
And finally focus on doing
What makes me happy.

Falling back in it again in Italy.

Warning: this is long as fuck, and not necessarily cohesive or fluid.
Here are some scraps and scribbles from Italy.




Airport musings:

It’s hard to describe how Europeans look:
They are definitely attractive and exotic—
But there is something distinctly different
About their features: perhaps it is
The dramatic arches of their eyebrows,
Or their seemingly pursed lips,
Or their long, unkempt looking but
Totally styled hair.
I think, maybe, they look like vampires.
They are definitely all supermodels, for sure,
Fair and beautiful eye-candy,
And I can honestly say, I am now
Without a cent of self-esteem
Or self-adoration to my name.
Europe will be the demise of my vanity.

(And there is something totally campy
About flight attendant uniforms
And their dress code
And personal grooming regulation—
And about flight attendants in general,
But that’s a different matter entirely)

Before we left the house, my grandma
Instructed us to take photographs,
Reminding us that our generation
Is privileged to have cameras,
That in her day, they didn’t have such
Complex contraptions and devices
To their disposal.
Nor were they allowed to take pictures
At the Vatican.
(I think she’s still bitter about that)
Except for the Japanese—
They magically had cameras.
And they never followed the rules.

(Ironically, I forgot my camera; oops)

Also, apparently, when Europeans
Find you attractive, they pinch your ass.
My great-aunt explained that
When she was in her thirties,
A frisky Frenchman pinched her rump
In front of her husband at the Vatican,
And therefore also in front of God himself.
My grandma wailed and warned us
To be careful.
(I can only hope that someone
Finds me attractive amongst
All these beautiful people—
Maybe I have some mysterious
American charm and I will get laid,
Or maybe everyone will just think
I’m a child with special needs and ignore me)



Florence:

Florence is busy.
I’m not sure if they have traffic laws here.
I think they just make them up as they go.
Lanes are more like guidelines,
When there are lanes.
Stop signs and traffic lights
Are optional.
Everyone drives like I do
e.g. over curbs.
Except they all have small cars;
I have a mini-van;
They have no excuse.

Florence feels like a post-war town.
From what I have seen,
There is only graffiti
And construction
And cigarette butts
And plaster buildings
And street vendors.
The language barrier is intimidating
And I feel like the only thing
I can do is make awkward
Hand gestures and eye movements.
Maybe I won’t leave the hotel room.

The hotel is beautiful.
From the street, we missed the entrance
The first time looking for it.
All of the homes and shops
Have paper thin entrances—
You travel through narrow, dimly lit corridors,
And the space branches up and out as you proceed.
It’s like a labyrinth; rooms stacked impossibly.
There are hidden rooms and stairways and hallways
Tucked away leading to other living chambers.
I half expect the wardrobes to take me to wonderland.
There are miniature statues everywhere,
And bright flowers
And painted glass windows
Framed by stained wood.

The Italians really like their leather,
Whenever we pass a coat shop
Or a purse stand, the smell is so incredibly
Overwhelming, it seems as though
The cows are being slaughtered
Just behind the counter,
I wouldn’t blink twice if I saw blood
Seeping under the doorways to the backrooms.
I keep looking for the underground bondage clubs;
I haven’t found them yet.

We visited David; I swooned in ecstasy.
He was beautiful.
Michelangelo believed that
The nude male figure
Is the epitome of beauty.
(I agree with him whole-heartedly)
All of the figures we saw today were incredible:
Every muscle bulging,
Every vein exposed,
Bones protruding,
Chiseled perfection.
I fell in love with every single statue.
Each one gave me goosebumps.
I hope one day I’ll be able to create art
Like these masters.

We saw living statues.
Some of them weren’t doing it right—
Running around in ghost white bed sheets,
Face paint sloppily applied—
Jingling paper cups of change in peoples faces.
I didn’t pay them.

My first glass of Italian wine was delicious.
Sweet, slightly spicy.
Dry, yet rich and quenching.
I think the grapes here are fertilized
With honey and crack.

The Italians believe that when
You’re seated at the dinner table
You don’t age.
So you might as well sit back
And relax for a couple of hours
And enjoy the meal and the company.
Because you’re obviously
Not getting any older
Or missing anything important.
I like this mindset.

I saw great paintings:
I saw Caravaggio’s thieves, prostitutes and male lovers.
I saw Da Vinci’s Madonna clutching Christ,
I saw Botticelli’s Venus, rowing ashore on her shell,
I saw Paramigianio’s long-necked virgin,
I saw the birth of scientific linear perspective.
I saw the birth of the Renaissance.

The Renaissance was a time of
Exchanging ideas and theories,
Of intellectual and spiritual intercourse
And conversation,
Of poetry and wigs
And frilly dresses—
Of artisans, of invention,
Of turning to self and the capacity
And ability of man for inspiration.
Of human connectedness.
I should’ve lived back then.
In another life, I probably did.

I saw more living statues.
I walked up to one, dropped a coin
In his box and he slowly creaked to life.
We made eye contact.
We touched.
Held hands.
He started to pose for a picture;
I wanted to stop him and say:
“no, no, I just wanted to share a moment with you,
I just want to feel another being pressed against me,
I just want to feel human again WITH you,
Just for a moment”
But the language barrier prevented this.
So I quickly wrapped my arms around him,
He followed my lead,
And we embraced—a true, heartfelt embrace.
Cameras flashed, people smiled.
It was pure and beautiful and intimate.
I thanked him—we smiled at each other
And bowed,
And then he turned back into a statue.
I visited all of the others on the street.
It felt like pure prostitution:
We’re both getting what we want.
My side possibly more meaningful,
But it works out.
Maybe I’ll drop out of school
And become a living statue,
Busking around town to pay the bills,
And creating meaningful, human art.



I’m getting the tan I’ve been avoiding all summer.
Fuck.
I feel like a vineyard worker.

We ate out in the town, feasted on pasta
In a cellar and drank their sweet wine.
The chief listened to 90’s pop—
I’ve also had my fair share of lady gaga here;
She really has taken over the world.
(I had a fantasy about meeting her in Rome,
And I wanted to take a picture with her
And she wanted to take a picture with me
But we were both just so hot and sweaty and gross,
So we made out instead)

My sister and I took dead pictures around the hotel,
People stared, and it was okay.




Lucca and Cinque Terre:

It was bittersweet to leave Florence,
To leave the art and the life and the hospitality.
We went for a day trip in Lucca,
We rode bicycles around the top of the fortress walls
Surrounding the town; it was wonderful.
I don’t think I’ve been so happy and joyous and carefree
In a long time.
There’s just something about riding bicycles.
It was thrilling and satisfying.
(The experts are right; you never forget how to ride a bicycle)
We just rode around the fortress at a comfortable pace,
Taking in the scenery and letting the breeze sweep across our bodies.
It was refreshing; I checked out.
I felt like I was in an animated Japanese film,
Merrily peddling along, fresh fruit
In the whicker basket
Woven to the front of my bike,
The locals zooming by: some carried radios,
Others made out on the benches.
It was perfect.
We went to a little shop and bought sandwiches,
And feasted on salami, prosciutto and focaccia beneath the trees.

Then we bussed back to Cinque Terra,
A little town tucked away in the mountains,
Shielded from the elements;
Lemon and orange and grapefruit trees
Thrive in the humid climate.
We could see all the rooftops of the surrounding houses
From our hotel balcony—
It’s an old pirate town,
Everyone sun bathes,
Except for the elderly,
Who gossip in the shade
On the benches outside the churches.

We went to a restaurant predating
The second world war, and the owner and cook
Shared her secret pesto recipe with us.
Fragrant and potent basil,
Pine seeds and slick olive oil,
Mashed to all hell.
It was delicious.
We washed it all down
With sweet white wine.
Afterwards, we sat out on the terrace,
Comparing notes and smoking cigarettes
And star gazing.
It was surreal knowing that we were sitting
Under different constellations.
For once, I wasn’t under the same stars.

We climbed the mountainside on narrow,
Man-made stone paths connecting the small towns
Along the coastline—steep stairways embroidered
The jagged terrain; the people who dwell here
Grow grapes and basil and tomatoes on the cliffs.
It’s amazing what can be sowed and harvested
From these dangerously steep, stale and bone-dry gardens.
Incredibly, wild bamboo plants and morning glory vines also reside.

We walked through a tunnel of love:
Couples flock here to declare, memorialize and solidify
Their commitment to their lovers by locking lockets along
The railings of the tunnel.
Human hearts, roses and other images of love and passion
Were graffitied onto the walls.
(I wondered how many of these couples were still together.
And then I wondered how many of the skeptics kept
The keys or scribbled down the combinations just in case
Their relationships turned sour)

I sat out on the balcony of our hotel with a refilled glass
Of white wine, inhaling cigarettes and enjoyed
The scenery—the rooftops and awnings.
I didn’t go to the beach, my farmer’s tan is too embarrassing.
Everyone here is just so beautiful,
In their speedos, making out on the rocks,
Glistening in the sun,
The waves lapping at their feet,
The foam licking their toes.
They look like mermaids.
I want to be a mermaid.

A humming bird flew by,
Quickly drinking the sweet nectar
From a potted flower on my terrace.
It was brief.
And I wondered what hummingbirds did
With the rest of their time
When they weren’t making fleeting appearances.

Tuscany:

The hills here resemble the landscape of the human form:
Voluptuous curves, full mounds, fleshy complexion,
Like the smalls of backs, or the arches and dips of breasts,
Sewn together and clothed in a patchwork garment
Of plantation fields.

We went to a wine tasting.
We discussed art and politics,
We discussed St. Catherine’s severed and preserved head,
We sat in awe of the resiliency of the Tuscans,
Who blocked up an entire arched gateway to the city,
Using massive bricks they pried up from the streets,
To prevent the Germans from invading.
We traded tales about relatives
Who immigrated to America
And stressed the importance
Of remembering and preserving and recording
Their histories and their stories
Before we lose them and it's too late:
Loaves of bread, aunt rose, wartime factory gossip.




Rome:

(By the time this trip is over, I wont have any clothes
That haven’t been stained and ruined from olive oil splashes at dinner—
I’ll have to shop for an entirely
New wardrobe when I return)

We went to the Vatican.
I saw the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
I came in my pants on the spot.
It was messy.
We saw Bernini’s beautiful sculptures,
Cheered and rooted as David pulled his slingshot,
Peeped at Theresa moaning in ecstasy,
Witnessed Persephone’s rape,
Watched as Daphne transformed into a tree
And consoled Apollo mourning his unrequited love.
Each statue was posed in arching, twisting,
Dramatic, ballet-like, lyrical stances.
They looked as though they could come to life.
The detail was impeccable,
The skin of Persephone’s limbs impregnated and penetrated
By the pressure of Pluto’s grasp as she flailed to free herself.
I came in my pants once again.

We went to the colosseum;
I imagined the glamour and desperation,
The bread and circus,
The exotic splendor
And the facing of one’s own mortality.
Mussolini called it “monumental clutter”


We did the tourist thing,
We inhaled gelato,
We drank lemocellos to “aid digestion” after dinner,
We ate Bacio—delicious confections—fists of dark chocolate sprinkled with almonds
With little slips of passionate poetry folded inside:
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind”
“The heart cannot be bought or sold, only given”
“A sponge to wipe away the past,
a rose to sweeten the present,
and a kiss to greet the future”
“Love submerges in a wave of kisses
and surfaces in a torrent of passion”
(I think, this is where Italian men get their pickup lines,
Cheesy as fuck, but I love cheese, and I ate that shit up)
We cast coins into the fountain of Neptune.
I threw in three so that one day I will return
With the man of my dreams.



My aunt says every equinox and solstice,
Her family and friends come together to celebrate,
Gathering in front of a roaring fire.
On little slips of paper,
They write down their dreams and desires.
Then they drop these prayers into the fire
And let them burn.
And as the ashes disappear
And their hopes are released into the atmosphere
They pray that the world answers their requests.
It’s kind of like ‘the secret’, but without
The greedy material gain,
Rather, it’s spiritual and emotional healing.









Every time I sit down to write a list of qualities
I hope to find in a man, I keep describing
The last person I was in love with.
He seemed perfect,
Sometimes, I still think he is.
But clearly he isn’t,
Otherwise we’d be together,
And I wouldn’t be writing this.

This is probably healthy, maybe.

I want someone taller than me,
Someone who can literally
Sweep me off my feet
(Which shouldn’t be too difficult
To begin with since I have about as much
Meat on my bones as a holocaust victim)
I want an artist, a writer, a musician, a poet,
A romantic, a dreamer, an explorer, an inventor.
“Someone schooled in an art, as though he was kissed
By God, full on the lips”
I want someone who communicates,
Someone who won’t jump ship when faced
With discussing himself and his feelings.
He must be sturdy,
And vulnerable,
And eloquent—
Someone who finds beauty
In the simplicity of life.
Someone who is candid,
And not emotionally detached.
Someone who isn’t too glittery or misty,
Someone strong and protective,
Someone with wit and charm,
Style and class,
Someone who can express his love
Not simply through spoken word
Or physical pursuits,
But through other creative, expressive
And unexpected outlets.
I want someone who can appreciate me for who I am,
Not for who I could potentially become.
I want someone who doesn’t think I have growing to do,
That my feet aren’t too small for the shoes I’m trying to fill.

Someone like this:

Someone “…who wishes to build sand castles with words,
Who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander.
We build this place with the sand of memories;
These castles are our memories and inventiveness made tangible.
So part of us believes that when the tides starts coming in,
We won’t really have lost anything,
Because actually only a symbol
Of it was there in the sand.
Another part of us thinks we’ll
Figure out a way to divert the ocean.
This is what separates artists from ordinary people:
The belief, deep in our hearts, that if we build our castles well enough,
Somehow the ocean won’t wash them away.
I think this is a wonderful kind of person to be.”
(Anne Lamott “Bird by Bird—Some Instructions on Writing and Life)

Amen, Anne.

(Alas, “we plan, god laughs”
I had an emotional experience
Whilst watching “Iron Jawed Angels”
On the flight home.
It was probably the wine.)

Anyway,
No more planning.
My clairvoyant friends
Can predict when guests
Are going to arrive.
I’m usually bad at this.
But I get the feeling
Things are looking up

Knowing your worth.

We went up to Buffalo
For the weekend to visit my grandmother;
I always forget how beautiful
It is up here in the late summer.
We’re usually here in the winter,
Buried under feet of snow,
Uselessly trying to shovel our way out.
However, during—what seems like—the three months
It isn’t snowing,
It’s lovely.
All of the houses here
Are paneled in wood
And painted in creamy pastels,
The siding weathered and aged,
The worn windows flanked by shutters.
Almost every house
Has a widow’s peak
And a cozy front porch,
Accented by Victorian spindles
And intricate arabesque archways;
Porch swings and rocking chairs sway in the breeze.
All of the wild flowers are in full bloom;
The fields trimmed with
Daises, tiger lilies, hollyhocks and bluebonnet,
The Queen Anne’s lace still blotted with blood
As thick and fresh as the juice
Dripping from the sweet blackberries.
Farmer’s markets line the cobbled brick roads—
There’s even an ostrich farm down the street.
This town is quaint as fuck.

Saturday morning,
My cousin and I went garage sailing.
And I picked up some kitschy treasures.
Then we drove on the interstate;
The voyage was exhilarating.
There’s nothing like flying down the highway
With the windows rolled down—
New York State air is refreshing—
Bluegrass blasting through the speakers
And letting your hand dip
And flail across the air.
There’s nothing like
Being lost in the country,
Letting the winding, concrete ribbon
Sweep you away.

It’s nice to check out sometimes.

We visited relatives; family is refreshing.
They say there’s nothing thicker than blood,
Sometimes, I think they might be right.
We drank wine, feasted on spicy sausages
And fried green tomatoes.
We traded stories, offered advice,
Exchanged tales of encounters with the paranormal,
And compared notes on surviving this
Fucked up lifetime.

As always, we watched a disaster film.
Nothing brings people together
Quite like an alien invasion.
My aunt says, when we die
And we meet the aliens,
They’ll be shocked and amazed
That we survived a lifetime on this planet.
Granted, life could be worse,
A lot worse.
But still,
It’s really fucking difficult
Not to wig out
All the time.


Lately,
I’ve been on the bender.
I haven’t been taking care of myself.
I’ve been reckless,
And unhealthy,
And self-deprecating,
And self-destructive,
And it’s taking a toll.
My bones and muscles ache,
I can feel my heart and my will breaking.
And I don’t like it.

Sometimes,
It’s necessary to compile
A list of things that
You’re good at,
And qualities
You like about yourself,
Just to remind yourself
That you ARE a worthwhile person,
Despite what others have chalked you up to be.
And despite what even you have chalked yourself up to be.

Sometimes
You need to remind yourself
Of your own worth.


I have nice hands
And I like what I can do with them.
I can sew,
And mend holes,
And bind books together.
I could make you a doll
So you won’t have to sleep alone at night.
I can nurse a dying bird back to health,
I can also make scrambled eggs.
I could put together
The most beautiful bouquet
Of wild flowers you have ever seen,
And I’m casual around bees.
I look hot in briefs.
I can carry a tune.
I can lose my phone,
But I won’t forget to call you back.
And when the satellites
Come crashing down
I’ll still remember how to communicate.
I can beat a hoop with a stick,
I can carve a whistle out of a branch,
I can weave cat’s cradle.
And do other useless things.

I know how to grieve—
We have strange rituals,
We bury our dead
And visit their graves.
And we cry
And dwell.
This is how we cope—
I know how to grieve.
So don’t tell me how to mourn.

I can cut losses,
But I won’t burn bridges.


Although I couldn’t buy you a drink,
I could write you a heartfelt letter,
And pen poetry,
And compose songs
And paint you a masterpiece
If you asked me to.










And now, some words from the experts:

“I've learned that you cannot make someone love you.
All you can do is be someone who can be loved.
The rest is up to them.
I've learned that no matter how much I care,
some people just don't care back.
And it's not the end of the world.
I've learned that it takes years to build up trust,
and only seconds to destroy it.
I've learned that it's not what you have in your life,
but who you have in your life that counts.
I've learned that you can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes.
After that, you'd better know something.

I've learned that you shouldn't compare yourself
to the best others can do,
but to the best you can do.
I've learned that it's not what happens to people,
It's what they do about it.
I've learned that no matter how thin you slice it,
there are always two sides.
I've learned that you should always leave loved ones with loving words.
It may be the last time you see them.
I've learned that you can keep going
long after you think you can't.

I've learned that heroes are the people who do what has to be done
When it needs to be done
regardless of the consequences.
I've learned that there are people who love you dearly,
but just don't know how to show it.
I've learned that sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry,
but that doesn't give me the right to be cruel.
I've learned that true friendship continues to grow even over the longest distance.
Same goes for true love.
I've learned that just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to
doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.

I've learned that no matter how good a friend is,
they're going to hurt you every once in a while
and you must forgive them for that.
I've learned that it isn't always enough to be forgiven by others.
Sometimes you have to learn to forgive yourself.
I've learned that no matter how bad your heart is broken,
the world doesn't stop for your grief.
I've learned that our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are,
but we are responsible for who we become.
I've learned that just because two people argue, it doesn't mean that they don't love each other.
And just because they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do.

I've learned that sometimes you have to put the individual
ahead of their actions.
I've learned that two people can look at the exact same thing
and see something totally different.
I've learned that no matter the consequences,
those who are honest with themselves get farther in life.
I've learned that your life can be changed in a matter of hours
by people who don't even know you.
I've learned that even when you think you have no more to give,
when a friend cries out to you,
you will find the strength to help.

I've learned that writing,
as well as talking,
can ease emotional pains.
I've learned that the people you care most about in life
are taken from you too soon.
I've learned that it's hard to determine where to draw the line between being nice
and not hurting people's feelings and standing up for what you believe.
I've learned to love
and be loved.
I've learned...” (Omer B. Washington)







I can love.
I can love you.
I can love myself.

preparing for the end of the world

I’ve been on a disaster film kick lately:
There’s something romantic—and appealing—
About the storylines of disaster films.
Knowing that the fate of the world
Is completely out of your control,
It’s relieving really.
As the sky comes crashing down,
You don’t have to worry about
That painting you never finished.
You don’t have to worry about
Remembering birthdays,
Or running red lights or taking your vitamins,
Or making sure your hair doesn’t look too stupid,
Or finding a practical job or paying the rent on time.
You don’t have to worry about
Keeping track of the pain of the surrounding villages,
Or mourn over road kill or your dead car,
Or worry about your friend’s sick mother,
Or the ghosts on Riverside,
Or the meth head that creeps around in the ditches at night.
Trying to stay alive becomes your only priority.
Everything else is trivial.

Things would be easier,
Besides the impending doom.

If the world were ending,
I wouldn’t have to concern myself
With finding love,
Only with finding a way
To stay alive.



Hope for the best,
Prepare for the worst, they say.
And I would.
I’d map out escape routes,
Pack practical provisions
Of bread and cheese,
Gather my friends
And my worthwhile relatives,
Board up the house,
Break out the booze
And hope to god we live
To see another day.

(Unless the aliens were coming,
In which case, I’d promptly
Mow a crop circle in my front yard
Asking them kindly
To beam me up off of this planet.
And I’d never look back.


Unless they were hostile.
In which case,
We’d be fucked.)




Unfortunately, the world isn’t ending.
And we have to deal with life as it is:
Disastrous, and certainly not over.







Things always seem to go south all at once,
And then they get worse.
And you can’t just ignore the warning signs,
You might lose a foot.



We all have scores to settle,
Pieces to glue back together again.
I suppose it all just boils down to
A matter of whether or not
We chose to take on the world
By ourselves
Or
With the aid of our allies.

The table is set.
The guests are all seated.
Do you tell them the party is over?
Or do you
Join hands,
Break bread,
Assess the situation,
Weigh out options,
And try to figure out a solution
Together.








It’s rough out there.
Just remember,




















You’re not in this alone.

cornfields and rockets.

I think I have an unrealistic conception of what the south is like.
I envision dirt roads and old, weathered wooden houses,
With sturdy front porches lined with rocking chairs,
And nectarines and lemonade and jars of honey.
And everyone has screened doors and southern cross windmills,
And wears straw sun hats and hangs their laundry out on the line to dry,
And the sky is always blue and clear,
And you can always see the stars at night.
And if you wanted to,
You could sleep in a cornfield.


We went traipsing through a cornfield the other day,
It was beautiful.
Slender green stalks,
With reaching arms,
Stretching to touch the sky.
Flimsy leaved hands,
Wafting and fluttering in the breeze.
Knee high by the fourth of July, they say.
Most of the crop was my height,
But that was fine.
There’s something liberating about getting lost
In a field of corn.
For a brief moment,
You’re isolated from the world.
Alienated.
And nothing matters.




(I found a wild onion.
It tasted sweet.
I’m thinking about taking up gardening.)











I didn’t watch the fireworks tonight,
It would’ve been too heartbreaking.
As corny as it sounds,
I want nothing more
Than to sit under a sky of exploding rockets
Hand in hand with the one I love.
And as the cherry-bombs and roman candles detonated,
We would kiss.
Cue majestic, grandiose sweep of violins and bluebirds on your shoulder,
All Cinderella’s castle and stained glass,
And glittering magic fairy dust.
And it would be disgustingly sappy.
Yes, I want that bullshit.


Instead, I drove in the opposite direction,
The pyrotechnic stars bursting behind me.
All I could see were the flairs of the fireworks
Reflecting off of the clouds
As the sonic booms from the explosions rattled my car.
It felt like the city was being bombed.
It felt like the apocalypse.
I expected air raid sirens to sound.

They didn’t.
The world wasn’t ending.


I went and saw some friends.
We lounged.
One of my friends calls herself
The virgin of the couch.
(She’s hardly a virgin)
A poetic way of saying she’s a hermit.
I want to paint her,
With neoclassical drapery.
And naked Egyptian servants.


It’s Sunday.
The day of rest.
I’m going to lounge some more when I wake up.
Goodnight.

booze, blues, birthdays and tattoos.

It’s cold tonight,
It feels like October.
The chill out of context is unsettling.
Earlier I was outside smoking a cigarette, wrapped in a warm sweater.
The fireflies were out, riding the breeze,
Choreographed constellations,
Waltzing and twinkling and lighting up the night.
The cicadas and grasshoppers and crickets singing in three-part harmony,
The moon high and in full bloom,
It was strange,
The symphonic summer lull against the frigid air.
An unlikely juxtaposition.
It’s like when you’re driving at night,
And suddenly, your lights reflect off
Of hundreds of glistening shards
Of broken glass from a fatal automobile accident
From earlier that day.
And the shimmering, sugarcoated glaze
Of fractured window shield
And crushed side-view mirror
Icing the road
Is just so beautiful
That you forget, for a moment,
That the scene really supposed to be tragic.





I’m twenty.
I’m still trying to get used to it.
It’s an uncomfortable age to be caught at.
My friends go to the bars and I feel young,
When I went to the pediatrician today, I felt old.
Two shots of penicillin later, I still felt old, and sore.
The hipster highschoolers make me feel old,
And the charming couples in their thirties
With their sharp style and classy taste and expensive wine,
And perfect relationships,
They make me feel young.

I’m almost old enough,
(But I’ll never really, truly, be old enough)

Oh well,
Here’s to a new decade:
The roaring twenties.



I celebrated my birthday for about two weeks,
The days jammed full of cigarettes by candlelight, stargazing, porch-sitting, celebratory drinking sessions, cheap booze, acoustic guitars, cherry wine, liquid gel ibuprofen, good friends and good times.






I have a tattoo,
(I’m officially a hard ass)
It’s of a needle and a spool of thread
(I’m officially a pansy)

It’s a metaphor for women’s suffrage, and because I have vagina envy, it just seemed fitting.

Joking.
(Not really)


It’s a symbol of creation and art:
The ability to produce something out of nothing
Using only your intellect, hands, and raw materials,
The same way a seamstress creates a garment following her vision,
Using only fabric,
Thread
And nimble fingers pulling a needle.
It represents my domestic side,
Rooted foundations,
Keeping the fire lit,
And the importance of the home and hearth.
It also represents self-sufficiency,
Self-sustainability,
Self-healing
And self-reliance.
Being able to do things on your own,
The same way a seamstress can make her own clothes.
It represents consistency,
Like repetitive stitches;
Following a plan of action.
Keeping yourself together,
And the ability to fix yourself when things fall apart.


The part of me that thinks I’m a spider finds this really poetic.





My tom’s shoes came in,
They look exactly like my old hospital slippers,
Only they won’t fall apart after a week,
And even though when I wear them I look like I just escaped from the psych ward,
I now own shoes with arch support.







It’s July,
Mission for (summer) love = still unattained.

But that’s okay
I’ve been busy,
Tree-climbing,
(Productive)
And song-writing,
And cutting off my jeans into shorts,
And not wearing t-shirts,
And drinking excessively,
And howling at the full moon,
And enjoying every ounce of summer.




I’ve also taken to playing the piano naked.






I’m
having
a
ball.

on living.

Lately, the serenity prayer seems pertinent, relevant and applicable to my life:

“...grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting the hardships as the pathway to peace…”


Now,
I am not an alcoholic.

…



er,

fuck it.
I can discuss the serenity prayer while sipping a glass of wine, right?
Is that sacrilegious?
Morally wrong?
Is Reinhold Neibuhr turning in his grave?
Probably.
I’m going to hell regardless.

Watch me.




I am learning that
There comes a point
When you have to
Pause,
And assess
Your current course of action.
You’ve tried.
You’ve given it your best mothafuckin shot.
And despite your full-hearted efforts,
You’ve failed.
And, you realize
It seems pointless to keep pushing something that obviously isn’t working.
If we’re going to play the dirty blues, we have to be on the same page.
If we’re not, it’s just not happening.
And you have to accept that.
Period.


Does that mean
Raise high the white flags
And surrender?




No.

On the contrary,
You just have to
Alter your approach.
Change your strategy.
Try something completely different.


For example,
Actually taking your own advice:

Now Zach,
You know a watched pot never boils.
Love comes in those moments
When you’re least expecting it to.
So stop expecting,
Stop nesting,
Stop preparing,
Stop holding your breath.

Breathe.

You’ve been blue in the face for months,
It isn’t exactly healthy.



It’s summer.

Breathe.

Distract yourself.
Do what you love to do.
Do what makes you happy,
Do what helps you to keep on keepin’ on.

Life doesn’t have to be sighing violins and cellos,
You don’t have to mourn to minor chords.
You’ve been listening to tragic ballads for far too long,
Change the station.


Rather,
Turn off the radio.

Pick up your guitar,
Strum the E major chord
Again and again.
Faster.
Until you blister.
Sing your heart out,
Scream.
Let your voice crack,
Be ugly.
Lose your breath.
Liberate yourself.
Rock the fuck out.
Dance around
To the simple
Rock & roll
Song.

Make music,
Make art.
But you don’t necessarily have to be productive.

Be thankful for what you have,
Your friends,
Your kindred company,
Enjoy them,
Gossip,
Talk shit,
Porch-sit,
Chain-smoke,
Lounge,
Drink,
Indulge.

Live
Like
There
Is
No
Tomorrow.

hand me the moon

It’s weird,
How some people can sense your pain.
They don’t even have to know you,
Your name, your history.
Unaware of the situation,
Unacquainted with the details
Of your heartache and suffering,
Somehow, these strangers,
By simply staring through your salt-stained windows
And reading the wrinkled maps in your forehead,
Know that you are grieving.



I want to stop feeling like this:
Naked and vulnerable
Ugly and unapproachable
I want to stop grieving
I want to stop feeling incompetent


I don’t want people to look at me
And tell me my eyes look sad.









I want to feel special again

I want to feel like maybe I’m doing things right,
That I don’t have to change
That I can stop making up excuses

I want to feel validated.
I want to dazzle.
I want to shine.

I want to feel.
I want to connect.
I want to share details
And grease the wheel over cake

I want to be held
I want to stop wondering how long I’ll have to sleep alone.
I want to feel someone’s breath on my neck,
I want to feel another beating heart.
To press my body into another,
And fold myself into their arms.

I want to stop feeling bitter when I see happy couples.
I want to stop feeling ashamed for feeling bitter.
I want to kiss someone on new years.
I want to come home to someone.

I want to hold hands.


I want to write love letters for someone,
And pen poetry
And compose songs
And paint.
I want to live out fairy tales
With happy endings.






I want to feel magic
I want to feel human.

I want to share
I want to give my love
I want to give my soul
I want to give everything I have to offer






I’m sure I’m capable.
I just want to feel capable.




It’s just hard
When someone tries you on for size
And tosses you aside.
Threads are still caught
Heart strings are still pulled.




“One day you will meet the man of your dreams,
But the road will be long and painful.
Without this journey ahead,
You could not truly appreciate
The one who will save your life.”

I never thought about it this way.
I always thought I’d be the one doing the saving.
Not the other way around.


Maybe I really do just need someone to hand me the moon,
And save my life.

still sitting under the same stars

You’d think
A change of scenery,
A new location,
A different setting altogether,
Would yield change.
A change of pace,
A change of heart,
A fresh start.









Ha.


The stage has been set
The backdrop freshly painted.












I don’t feel differently.



It’s summer.
I’m back at home,
In my dear old house,
In my lumpy bed
Still caught up in my old habits,
Still caught up in my pitfalls,
Analyzing and reporting,
And hoping
That someday things will make sense,
That someday things will be easier,
And less painful.












I’m still sitting under the same stars,
I’m still sitting under the same stars,
I’m still sitting under the same stars,










Dammit.




Location doesn’t change a thing,
I’m still haunted by the same ghosts.
I’m still sitting under the same stars.

secret life of the south

Superstitions tucked away,
In the creases of my palms,
Copper pennies
in my shoes
A flask of southern comfort,
stirred with sugar spoons
Spiked with a country time,
home-made, lemonade brew
Cigarette etiquette,
lucky twos,
beer bottle blues
Pocket change and good luck charms
Double dipped, candy flipped,
cocaine flakes numb my lips
Sugar coat me,
fill my heart,
keep me safe,
keep me warm
My keepsakes stowed away,
all my quirks, corked away
Packed my bags with my dreams,
and I’m busting at the seams
I’m just searching for the tracks,
got no ticket,
just my sack
Filled with hopes and desires,
glass half full for the ride
And I’m searching for the train
A railroad ride to numb me,
numb me from the pain
Won’t you cut my ball and chain?
Cause I’m searching for the train.
Everyone has a sad story, reasons to sing the blues
We all have our share of heartache
and wounds that can’t be glued
Would you like
to come away with me?
We’ll warm our hearts
with booze
and gospel
and good company
Decipher divine midnight maps
stitched in the heavenly constellations
Follow star-studded
twilight trails
to beautiful salvation
Wet our tongues with moonshine
and dance out
in the liquid drops
of summer sun
Stained glass eyes
and rose-colored frames,
our renaissance has just begun...






I hope one day, if I have I house, I’ll have a front porch:
The front porch will always be a sacred place for me.
There is nothing like spending a hazy summer afternoon
Settled in a warm whicker chair,
Wasting the hours away with friends
While sipping on piping hot coffee and vitamin water,
Chain-smoking cigarettes,
Exchanging stories
And anecdotes
And watching the scenery slowly change colors
As daylight wanes
And the sun finally dips beneath the treetops.
On the front porch, life is simple:
There are no obligations,
No duties or commitments;
On the contrary,
The living is easy,
Calming—almost anesthetic—
It’s just you and your kindred company,
Absorbed in the conversation and the gossip,
Indulging in your unhealthy
Yet quenching vices
And taking the time
To pause,
And relax.
You sit,
Immersed in the magic
And wonder if maybe the southerners are right
And that there is something to be learned from countryside living.







I hope one day, I’ll have someone to sit out on the porch with me.
Drinking vodka and lemonade and watching the fireflies light up the night.
And we’ll sway back and fourth together, in our rocking chairs.
And we’ll be in love.






I hope one day, I’ll have someone to fall asleep with
Every night.