the first rule of existentialism.

Just because something exists in your head,
don't mean it's real.
It takes someone else to confirm it's validity.

when will I learn?

I should know better than to do this, but..

I want to give you another last chance.

thankful.

Sartre and Beauvoir concluded
that we as humans only have the capability
to identify that which is absent from our lives
in order to fully recognize and realize
what we ultimately have the capacity to garner and obtain,
that it is impossible to address that which we already have
because its presence is too obvious to notice,
and is inherently digested and archived within.
Despite their extensive
and thorough literature defending this sentiment,
I believe Sartre and Beauvoir got it wrong,
and that it is possible, upon careful inspection,
to still describe that which we do have,
and appreciate what we’ve already acquired.

I am thankful.

“Nothing can beat wasting the day with people who truly care about you, who you don’t have to censor yourself around out of fear of being misconstrued or deconstructed. I can be a strong black woman, I can be gay; I can talk shit and sing my heart out and drink and smoke and act like a fool and feel completely safe. With my friends, I am home.”
-October 13th, 2008

I am thankful for my friends—
my noble and distinguished collection,
my select few, my kindred company, my coven.
I am thankful for our gatherings,
our discourse, our exchanges.
Our dissections and deconstructions,
our arm-chair psychology.
I am thankful for our conversation,
our front porch system, our support system
our cigarette breaks, our binges, benders
and coffee table coalescence.
I am thankful for our conspiring,
our plans, schemes, spells and charms.
I am thankful for their anecdotes,
gossip and ear-candy.
I am thankful for their insights,
and pearls of wisdom.
I am thankful for the sunsets we’ve shared—
the ones we knew were specifically painted for us.
I am thankful for the early morning lessons
in bomb construction.
I am thankful for our plans.
I am thankful for our traditions,
I am thankful for our apocalyptic visions,
and basement bomb shelter blueprints.
I am thankful for winters to hide away from,
I am thankful for pianos,
I am thankful for musical telepathy,
and three chord songs.

I am thankful for the one who broke my heart.
You taught me about resilience, and how to persevere.
You stirred something within me that I didn’t know existed.
You made me feel alive.
And even though you couldn’t requite,
you allowed me to practice sainthood,
you saw the best of me,
a side of myself I had never even seen before.
You were the first person I ever loved,
thank you for letting me.

I am thankful for everyone who ever let me love them,
you showed me that I have the capacity to love
and all the magic and the poetry it entails.

I am thankful for the little bird.
This whole time I’ve been nesting,
I thought I was taking an active role,
by creating a space to meet a lover.
You showed me that I was actually tying myself up,
And passively waiting for someone to rescue me.

And you also give me hope that someone will rescue me.

I am thankful for everything that has transpired,
that I was able to create everything that I have,
learn everything that I know,
and know everyone that I do.

I am thankful for the person I am.

Thank you.

there is no winter and no santa claus, and, yes virginia, that's because..

And all the lights hanging
from the peaks of the houses and the arms of the trees
reminded me of all the years I asked for a lover
for Christmas and never once found a boy
gift-wrapped in reams of tissue paper
and gold ribbon under my tree.
and I wondered if I should even bother asking again
or if Santa Claus was even alive.
I’ve been building nests for years
and I just don’t understand why
no one has come to fill any of them.

Preparing for the End of the World.

“Nobody is steering this ship. We’re all just looking nervously at the approaching iceberg & wondering if we can raid the bar.”

–Amanda Palmer

My aunt and I used to joke about the end of the world the same way dissatisfied and disheartened Americans toss around the idea of moving to Canada after each presidential election: “It’s okay that George Bush won the race, the world is ending in a few years anyway; we only have to muddle through this all just a little bit longer,” we’d tell each other sympathetically, half in jest—but our sentiments were ultimately anchored in unspoken sincerity. The apocalypse has always been a quenching conversational elixir for us. Every holiday, while the rest of the family gossiped around the dinner table, my aunt and I would sneak out to the garage to smoke cigarettes and compare notes on our latest end of the world findings. From the ancient Mayan predictions and Nostradamus’ doomsday prophecies, to the more recent conspiracy theories foretelling catastrophic solar flares and the possibility of the Earth’s poles unexpectedly and violently switching, we happily accepted and swallowed each other’s cataclysmic ear candy, and giddily returned to the dinner table intoxicated by the thought of our own demise. 

I was thrilled to discover that my friends were also enchanted with the idea of the end of the world. One July evening, instead of watching the celebratory lightshow marking the birth of our nation, we drove in the opposite direction, the pyrotechnic stars bursting behind us. All we could see were the flares of the fireworks reflecting off of the clouds, as the sonic booms from the explosions overhead rattled the car. It felt like the city was being bombed. It felt like Armageddon, and we were enthralled. We sped home and spent the remainder of the evening drafting blueprints for a doomsday bunker and planning and preparing for the end of the world. 

In many regards, entertaining the thought of the possible end of days was comforting for us. Knowing that the fate of the world is completely out of your control, it’s a relief, 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 your carbon footprint, or the hereditary diseases slinking through your DNA, or finding love. The only thing you have to concern yourself with is staying alive. 

But for my friends and my aunt and I, our survival was not a priority, or even on our agenda. Despite our young ages, we had grown disillusioned with life. We had become all too accustomed to its irritability, inconsistency and its transience. For years, we had fought to maintain a sense of stability, trying in vain to come to terms with each situation, make the best of it, consolidate, and actively engage in it, secretly hoping, that maybe this time, we could somehow magically sway the results in our favor. But we had learned that no amount of manipulation could prevent the world from turning, no amount of nitpicking could prevent the sky from falling, and no amount of manhandling could prevent a house in Kansas from being uprooted in a tornado and crashing down on us, again. And again. Despite our efforts, our loved ones died—a brother, a father, a mother—as did Santa Claus and fairy tale endings. Our hearts broke, as did our wills, as we had been in mourning for years too long. We had exhausted the cards that we had been dealt, and it’s not that we wanted new hands, we just wanted the game to be over. 

So when the skies suddenly blackened, and the television channels stopped transmitting and went off the air, and the colored emergency test patterns filled the screens, we knew it was our time, and we welcomed the end of the world with open arms. 

And we were more than prepared. As believers flocked to holy sanctuaries and shrines, and the politicians and scientists fled underground, we gathered our treasures, boarded up the windows, broke out the booze and bunkered down in our designated basement shelter. We had packed practical provisions of painkillers and champagne, cigarettes and chocolate cake. For once, we would call the shots, as they would be our parting shots, and our last. 

But as the hours passed, our excitement and anticipation waned. And the realities of our predicament began to sink in. As we sat, I wondered why any of us were even there. Too often we had confessed to secretly hoping cars would hit us as we crossed the street, or that satellites would come crashing down out of the sky and impale us. If we so desperately wanted to die, why hadn’t we killed ourselves already? If we so desperately wanted to die, why hadn’t we overdosed on all the drugs we attempted to numb ourselves with? If we so desperately wanted to die, why were we huddling in a basement bomb shelter, hiding from the one thing we truly craved, our deaths? All of my research proved that we weren’t meant to survive in troubled times, and yet we had survived a lifetime on this planet. We had always complained about having to dig ourselves out of winter each year, and yet, we shoveled out regardless. 

I thought about all sunsets I knew were painted specifically for me. I thought about all the times I tried to love and failed, and knew I wanted to try again. I thought about all the times I wanted to die and suddenly knew I was not ready. 

I poured myself some champagne and raised my glass: “Here’s to the end of the world, and here’s living despite the end. Here’s to our resilience and to our survival. Here’s to regaining our footing, despite quaked foundations, and here’s to dodging houses fall from the sky. Here’s to not jumping ship when things get too hard, and here’s to our capacity to persevere. Let us ride out this storm so that we can continue to live out the great human struggle with grace and ingenuity.”

a secret worth sharing.

It hurts me to see that you are hurting.
It hurts me to know that you think yourself less
than everything you actually and truly are.
It hurts me to know that you don’t see yourself
the way I see you.
It hurts me to watch you giving up on love.

This is why I revealed my secret to you,
to show you that—despite your conclusions telling you otherwise—
there is at least one person out there who cares about and for you,
who wouldn’t change a single thing about you,
and who thinks that you are beautiful
just as you are.

If you are going to let others define who you are,
don’t forget to take my definition into consideration.

On Kierkegaard--Life Despite Death, Faith Despite Uncertainty

We as humans can rationalize anything. We have the special and inherent ability, in any situation, to effortlessly justify our actions and convince ourselves that we made the right decision, despite the overwhelming evidence stacked against us, despite the lie detector hooked to our arms and despite the possibility of an ever watchful and ubiquitous God. We can, in good conscious, rest our hands on the bible and solemnly swear to tell our truths, regardless of whether or not these truths actually exist or manifest in reality or follow the laws of logic. My alcoholic friends justify drinking all winter long as a means to keep warm, my good friend’s crack-addicted mother remedied the dirty dishes piling to overwhelming heights in the sink by breaking every last piece of her china on the kitchen floor. Believers just as easily justify death: “She’s in a better place now,” they say, looking up towards the heavens knowingly.

Last month, I attended a funeral. I cried. Everyone did. And it felt so incredibly human. But why did we weep? Did we cry because we knew we would miss our loved individual, or did we cry because that death was just another reminder of our own transience, because there is a possibility that there is not a life beyond this one, and in that moment, we were truly terrified? Is this fear of our own mortality the reason why we try to invent purpose in our lives? Is this fear of an eminent and eventual death the reason why so many of us search for something outside of ourselves for some sort of implicit meaning? Perhaps this is why Kierkegaard wanted us to re-examine the story of Abraham, not simply because believers were attempting to understand his truly alienated experience—casually, aloofly and recklessly embracing the ineffable that was his ethical struggle, and chalking it up as simply a testament of his faith—but to remind us that we should be invested in this lifetime, and not the possibility of the next. Kierkegaard not only reveals the daunting steps one must take to achieve his idea of true faith—the commitment, the disappointment, the resignation, and finally the leap—but he also unearths what lies at the core of faith: passion.

It “…is a marvel,” Kierkegaard explains, “and yet no human being is excluded from it; for that in which all human life is united is passion” (Kierkegaard 95). Having passions and faith in these passions is vital, Kierkegaard argues, because they are the fuels that feed our wills to live. As humans, we are designed to seek out meaning. There is an inherent need within us all to have a purpose. Our passions and our faith in these passions are our purpose. These passions are not assigned to us. You will not find them in any library or archive, and there are no hints, clues, tips or phone calls, magic lamps, breadcrumb trails or wishing wells to guide us to them. Our passions and our faith come from within us, and Kierkegaard underscores that we must embrace and live these passions with every fiber of our beings, despite how irrational they are, despite the likelihood of their manifestations, and despite the status quo, because they are what keep us alive and grounded to this lifetime. And just as Abraham’s dilemma was his alone to fathom, our passions and the nurturing of our own narratives are ours and ours alone to compse.

I remember towards the end of the funeral, the woman leading the service concluded with this piece of advice: “We should not ask questions of “why”, but how can we move on and continue to live despite death?” I believe Kierkegaard would endorse this sentiment steadfastly and wholeheartedly, because he says it is essential that we be invested in this lifetime, because the future is uncertain and we should cherish and revel in what we have today.

the month the sun didn't set.

As the sun slowly slipped across the sky—
waxing proudly at the crest of the heavens,
bathing everything within its reach
in a thick balm of amber and honey
warmer than the fervent intoxication
succeeding the strongest drink,
marking high noon—
I watched as it took its brief seat
at the head of the table.
I noticed that my shadow
had disappeared completely
and suddenly understood how Peter Pan
must have felt when he lost his.
I ran inside to collect a needle and
some thread, in case I had to stitch it back to my soles.
When I emerged, I found that my shadow had not yet returned.

I waited patiently—and still my shadow did not reappear.
As I anxiously searched for it under the rocking chairs
and the ashtrays, I noticed the heat of the day on my back.
I looked up and saw that the sun had not moved
from its position at midday.

Others noticed.
The national news was quick to pick up on the story.
The scientists and the experts had no explanations.
Believers knew it was a sign of the Apocalypse.
Alaskans merely laughed, all too accustomed to weeks of sunlight.
A few simply chalked the phenomenon up to
an unusually hot August.

And yet, no one was at all that alarmed
until the skies refused to rain.

As predicted, that night
the sun did not set.
Clouds gathered, and heat lightning
spindled across the sky,
teasing the fields below.
Children danced about, carrying umbrellas,
hoping the motion might elicit rain.
As they tired, unsuccessful, they retreated inside
to cool off, only to find
that their popsicles had melted
and the ice-cubes had dissolved in their trays.

The next day, the sun hadn't budged.
Flowers began to wilt and the vegetables dried up.
Water began to evaporate out of swimming pools,
leaving behind salty trails of chlorine and bleach.
Some flocked to the grocery stores
to stock up on bottled water
and to cool off in the frozen foods section,
standing, for hours at a time, in front of the freezers.

Still, the sun did not set.
Electric plants overheated.
and power was shut off,
blacking out the world.
Rivers and lakes began to dry up,
and their sandy beaches coagulated into sheets of glass.
Carpenters went out of business
for their craft was too dangerous to execute
and their work was too flammable to own.
Trees caught fire, their leaves burning
into ash and falling like snow.
Fields of sunflowers and solar panels were cut down
out of fear that they were attracting too much heat.

Still the sun did not set.
Some tried to radio the astronauts,
asking them if they had any instruments
to induce an eclipse.
Some flew magnets to the moon,
tying the attractors to weather balloons and carrier pigeons,
hoping to nudge the satellite—others flocked to the shores,
throwing their bodies against the waves,
attempting to change the tides.
Plumbers constructed chutes and pipes to the sky,
trying to funnel rain from the clouds.
Oil tankers used their drills to tap for clean drinking water.

Still, the sun did not set.
The seas began to boil.
One could light a match by merely holding it outside.
Sun rashes intensified to burns of the third degree.
Hair began to singe.

And just as people’s skin began to melt off their bones,
the sun began to sink.
The world froze.

Once again, the scientists and the experts had no explanations.
Believers believed they had been saved by a miracle.
Alaskans bitterly returned to their ice castles.
I checked the calendar and noticed that August had finally ended,
and knew I would not be vacationing in the South that winter.

old enough.

I love how motherly and overly-affectionate
the black ladies at the gas station are to me.
It’s not that I necessarily enjoy being coddled,
but it’s endearing—and who doesn’t like
being called “sweet baby” or “honey” by someone
other than their own mother.
Granted, this is coming from someone
who finds cat calls and cheesy pick-up lines
flattering rather than unwanted—
these days, I’ll take all the lovin’ and affection I can get.

Usually, when I go to the gas station to pick up cigarettes,
I am instantly and automatically requested to show
my identification and proof of age before I can even ask
for my staple cigarette brand, Camel Turkish Royals.
“You just look so young,” they explain apologetically, or
“Are you sure you want those cancer sticks, buttercup?”
they ask, in a semi-concerned-for-my-young-little-lungs
but mostly condescending tone.
“I’ve been smoking since I was fifteen,” I reply,
trying to maneuver my inked arms into the cashier’s
line of eyesight—to nonverbally hint that obviously
I’m old enough pay for a well-executed tattoo
by a professional and not some under-the-counter,
under-the-radar, back-alley artist, and thereby
old enough to buy myself a pack of smokes.
“Wait, you’re not fifteen?” they usually reply,
utterly dumbfounded, and carefully scrutinize
my ID once more.
Most people would happily accept this slip,
and welcome being mistaken for half a decade younger
than they actually are with open arms.
Lately, though, this has become a nuisance.
I’m not trying to grow up too quickly—
but it’s difficult to act my age when
Regina and Patti and everyone else
thinks I’m so young, I’m so goddamn young.

I realize that most days, I do look like a child,
with my thin and seemingly fragile frame,
soft voice and untamed, curly mop.
It doesn’t help my cause that I dress unnaturally boyish,
dawning cut-off jean-shorts, size small t-shirts
and bright red slip-on shoes,
or that my beard refuses to fill in completely,
or that I’m overly apologetic,
or that, despite having good posture—
as someone recently noted—
I sometimes intentionally slouch to appear shorter.
But, come on, whatever happened to possessing "boyish charm"?
I also look particularly angelic and clean when
I hang white shirts from my shoulders,
but sometimes I wonder if people mistake this
and associate it with naivety and purity.

I am far from pure—
I curse like a sailor,
smoke like a chimney
and drink like a fish.
I’ve had my share of drug binges
that could match Courtney Love’s,
and although I prefer vanilla milkshakes,
that’s not how I like my sex.

And I’m far from naive—
I understand the workings of the world,
I’m politically aware, I’ve lived through deaths,
I’ve suffered a broken heart on more than one occasion,
I know that sometimes promises are empty,
I know that love doesn’t always end
happily, like in the fairy tales,
I accept that bad things do happen to good people,
that nice guys often finish last
and that things don’t always work out as they should.

When I was younger, people used to tell me
I was precocious, possessing an old soul equipped
with a mind much wiser than my years.
Why suddenly have the tables turned?
At this age, I shouldn’t have to defend
my age, intellect, emotional maturity and experience,
and still, there you are,
belittling me.

Sometimes I wonder
if I will ever be old enough for you.

on neglect.

Lately, I have neglected quite a few things—
I’ve neglected to analyze.
I’ve neglected to deconstruct, understand and reassemble.
I’ve neglected to archive impressions
and reminders of time and place.
My month and my mouth have run away from me again.

I neglected to gush about
the heart-wrenchingly beautiful
sunset drive up to the lake in July.
About the lush fields of corn—
pearled cobs hidden beneath the unpeeled pages of their husks,
crowning thick and sturdy stalks of such great stature—
stretching for miles beyond
the milky, twilit and strawberry-dipped horizon—
seemingly endless and immeasurable like the uncharted oceans,
stirring up buried sentiments described by anxious explorers and cartographers
of the 15th century, when it was still believed the world was flat
and they feared sailing off the side.
About the warped and weathered, wooden sidings of the country houses,
the bones of each home exposed beneath the chipping paint washes
and dappled coats of the sun-bleached stain finishing.
About the dilapidated barns swaying lazily in the breeze
in time with the linens pinned to sagging laundry lines
and the whirling southern cross windmills.
About the farmer’s markets, flaunting their freshest fruits and greens,
and the antique shops filled to the brim
with brittle, pink depression glassware, world war china dolls,
baubles, trinkets and other whimsies
that would tempt even the most seasoned
treasure hunters, collectors and hoarders.
About the brick, bible-belt churches
framing panes of glowing, stained widows.
About the blushing sun slowly dipping in the west the entire drive,
a faithful companion, never truly sinking,
and waxing brilliantly like a luminous watercolor painting,
as if nectarine, peaches, raspberries and plums
were mashed with a mortar and pestle and the juices were used
to smear the sky.
I swear, I’ve never seen as many colors
as I saw in the sky that evening.

I have neglected to document my observations
about the drive home from friend’s houses each night—
about Vanity and Columbus Gold
and the other peep show clubs I pass on Bethal Road
and the strippers with their glass slippers and broken hearts,
about the suburban mothers selling their prescription pain killers
to psychotropic capricorns under the cover of night,
about the flickering street lamps and the blood red moon,
about the traffic lights
and how sometimes love is like staring at the back of one
because I can’t read the signals
and I never know if it’s safe to proceed.

I neglected to write about the death of my dear friend’s mother—
about how bittersweet the death was, because her daughter instantly received
the pain her mother was finally relieved from after so much suffering.
About how the daughter is much too young to lose her mother.
About how bad it felt to grieve.
About how good it felt to cry.
And about the tragically beautiful wisdom passed on
to all who attended the funeral—
that death shouldn’t raise questions of “why,”
but “how” can we move on and continue to live despite it.

I’ve neglected to remind myself
that I always did like doing things the hard way
because of how rewarding it is when I finally do succeed.

And lately, I’ve neglected love.
I’ve put it on the backburner,
and, surprisingly enough,
I don’t mind one bit.
You know something is terribly wrong
when your mother worries about your ability to attract a mate,
but I’ve neglected worrying.
I haven’t been lying awake at night anymore,
wondering if I’ve already met the love of my life
and let him get away,
or reliving nights under the yellow light,
lying beside another, as those who love each other do,
even though he didn’t.
Instead of worrying, I’ve been enjoying every ounce of August—
attending drunken slumber parties in basement bomb shelters,
collecting all the cards and hearts, and shooting the moon.
Harmonizing, writing songs, brewing magic and casting spells.
Rolling up my sleeves, taking a moment to slow down and breathe.
Drawing landscapes on broken guitars with oil pastels by the pond,
taking late afternoon dips in the river,
spending every waking minute with my kindred company
and truly celebrating the season
and everything life has to offer.

traffic lights.

your love is like staring
at the back of a traffic light,
I can't read your signals
and I don't know
if it's safe to proceed.

on loving another.

A few months ago, someone told me
that she didn’t want to see me in a relationship
because she feared I would lose myself to the operation,
because I would be so completely consumed
in and with the other, I would forget my foundations,
and that sacrificing my autonomy for the sake of the union
was a romantic yet ridiculous offering
because living on someone else’s terms
and devoting myself entirely to just one other
was selfish. I would be stunted and cheat myself
out of my own growth and learning
and out of relationships with my friends
because I would become obsessed with pleasing solely the other,
and no one else.

I don’t see how wanting to love another is selfish.
It feels too human and inherent and obvious.
And it’s not that I value friendship less than romantic love.
I don’t want to be in a relationship just for the sake
of existing on one side of an ampersand
and having a consistent partner to have sex with.
I want to be in a relationship because I want to learn about love.
I’ve mastered unrequited love.
I’ve dealt with loss.
I’m more than well-versed in the art of mourning
and putting things back together again—
without the aid of the king’s horses and men
after a house falls out of the sky and crushes me.
But I know almost nothing about reciprocated love
on an intimate level.
I know that there is a whole other side to me
that has gone untapped because I have not yet
experienced reciprocated love
on a deeper and intimate level.

This isn’t a matter of feeling inadequate.
I love myself. I really do.
I just know I haven’t reached my full potential.
I want someone to fill the voids in my heart
that I know exist, and that I know I can’t fill by myself.

I want a teacher.
I want someone to prove me wrong.
I want someone to put me in my place
when my judgment is flawed—not in a condescending manner—
just in a way that shows he cares about my personal growth.
I’ve been practicing sainthood,
but I want someone to teach me humility and selflessness.
More than that, I want a companion,
a partner in crime.
I want someone to come home to.
I want someone to share a bed with.
I want someone to call my own,
and someone that can call me his.

an unexpected change of events.

and suddenly,
all the street lamps
have been turning on
as I pass beneath them,
instead of flickering off.
I pray that my luck has changed.

on forgiveness.

I wish I could be the bigger person
and give you the benefit of the doubt,
and full-heartedly believe that your intentions are pure.
I wish I could put my pride and pain aside,
and sweep our history under the rug
and pretend like it never happened
so that we might be friends again, and not strangers.
I wish I wasn’t straightjacketed by hesitance and fear
so that I could just accept your invitation
and go out for a drink with you,
catch up and make nice over cocktails.
Believe me, for the past year and a half, I truly wanted nothing more
than to rebuild our burnt bridges and mend fences with you—
I’ve been walking around with an olive branch in my back pocket
on the off chance that we might meet one another in passing.
Despite all of this, and despite my yearning to just suck it up and bury the hatchet,
I can’t help but feel that you still don’t respect me.
You didn’t show any regard for me when you
knowingly took me and my heart for granted two winters ago,
and now your sudden presence and persistence
after such an extended absence is cause for alarm.
I’m not trying to punish you, and I’m not trying to nit-pick and dwell.
I'm not trying to hold a grudge, but I can't just pretend
that everything is okay when it isn't.
It’s difficult to forgive and forget when an apology was never offered.
Call me selfish,
call me petty,
call me stubborn,
but please realize that, for a long while, I wasn’t living my life on my own terms
as I was thinking of you first, instead of myself.
I realize it’s also possible that I’m just fucking crazy.
I'm not trying to force you to own up to anything you feel you're not guilty of,
but please know that you fucked me up in a way no one else has,
and that I’m more than willing to happily help you wash the blood off your hands
if you’d just ask me to.

on hesitance.

I like to think that I am reasonable and fair,
that my designs are of an honest and rational kind.
I try not to harbor any relics of bitterness or hostility
towards those who have hurt me, or hoard
traces of regret or doubt for having experienced pain
when examining the string of accidents and coincidences—
and my reactions to these sometimes beautiful
and often unexpected and earth-shattering events—
that unravel my personal history.
I’d like to say that all manner of things are well,
yet, I find myself—once again—sailing dangerous waters,
and just because these seas are familiar,
it does not make them any less treacherous.
I once again find myself questioning where I stand in relation to you,
questioning your motives, your intentions,
your (re)appearance in my life.
Why, after so much silence, have you sounded the alarms?
Why have you returned? Why do you want to see me?
It’s not that I don’t want to see you,
but you must understand why I am so hesitant,
why I flinch when you try to reach out.
You were the first person I ever felt love towards—
despite never having exchanged those words with you and
not knowing whether or not those feelings were even reciprocated—
and when you left, I was broken.
I can’t blame you solely for the ambiguity and uncertainty
that defined our affair, as I should have communicated
my sentiments better, but I often wonder
if you were even phased by the two of us together.
Did you feel the magic too? Or was I just mad?
I’ve been trying so hard to get over you.
I realize you’re in a relationship
and I feel silly when I think about you still—
when I think about how great we could have been together.
I just hope that this isn’t just some game for you
because I’m not a toy, and I don’t have it in me
to play make-believe.

I was hoping.

"it's a cycle really,
you think i'm withdrawing
and guilt tripping you."

I wonder if we stopped punishing each other
things would work out.

what kind of love is this?

Samson.

These are the days for living.
These are the days for strawberry milkshakes,
and getting high in the hospital parking garage.
These are the days for wandering out in the cornfields,
for watching heat lightning spindle across the sky,
and for following trails of twinkling fireflies
all the way home.

Saturday is my birthday.
I’m turning another year older,
but I’m still the same person I was two years ago,
I’ve just acquired more art and more books.
My heart is just as heavy as it was.
And as the stars fall on my head,
I’m still haunted by old light.

Rumor has it you want to see me.
I want to see you too.
Samson, please, come back to bed.
I still miss you.

great expectations.

A storm is blowing in.
I can smell it through my open windows:
copper, honey, the pasty sealing of an envelope,
sheets taken down from the laundry line,
the yellowed pages of an old and weathered book,
vanilla, freshly cut wood, electricity;
all of these spices married into a brew,
sprayed out of an invisible perfume bottle
and carried like dust on the wind.
It was the fragrance Benjamin Franklin
inhaled as he was tying a skeleton key to his paper kite,
the aroma of expectation.
“Remember the ferryboat that used to sail by
that lit up like a floating birthday cake?”
No, but tomorrow, I will make my way
down to the river, crowned in a chain of daises and clover,
with a crow’s feather in my back pocket
and see what the storm swept ashore.

on fear.

I don’t scare easy,
not like a horse.
It takes a lot more to spook me
than my own shadow dancing on the wall.
I’m not afraid of red azaleas,
or residual radiation and electricity
falling from low sailing satellites in the clear Connecticut skies.
I am not afraid of spiders—
they are teaching me the art of patience.
I was a little disturbed, but mostly intrigued
when I heard a story about an old friend, who—
seduced by crystal meth—was seen one winter evening
waltzing in the middle of the street,
dressed in a billowy ball gown, fervently thrusting
an aluminum Christmas tree through the air like a crazed conductor,
madly leading an absent orchestra,
and with one swift flick of the wrist,
stopping her symphony
to flip boney birds and howl obscenities at passing cars
when caught in their high beams.
I’m afraid of yellow skies.
I’m afraid of the secrets the government is keeping.
I’m afraid of never finding love.
I’m afraid when the street lamps
blink off as I drive beneath them—
an especially cruel extended joke to play
on the already severely superstitious and suspicious.
I’m afraid of Steven Hawking’s prediction,
that the aliens will be hostile,
but I have a hunch, that this time, he’s wrong.
A few nights ago I had a dream:
I could see myself, standing naked
in front of my bedroom windows.
The curtains were drawn open
and a brilliant blue light was seeping
through the blinds, illuminating my bare skin
and warming my body.
It lifted me off the carpet,
and I hovered, bathing in the glow.
And as it pulled me towards it,
I felt bliss.
I just wish something less alien
would make me feel human.

on patience: a rant.

They say good things come for those who wait,
but my patience is wearing thin.
I’m getting to the point where
I want to pry the gears out of all my clocks,
smash the hours glasses,
throw the oven timer in the oven
and watch it melt into the metal rack,
ship the sundials back to antiquity
and channel George Washington
& chop down Big Ben like it was
the last fucking cherry tree on this planet—
like my life depended on it.
I want a boyfriend so badly it hurts.
I physically ache.
I doubt I’ll find love beneath the awnings at the bars.
Where are the scholars and artists and writers collecting?
Do people still discuss poetry and politics
and the end of the world at the cafes?
Where is the bread and circus?
Can’t I just sit on a rock out at sea with my guitar
and lure in the burly sailors with my siren songs?
Why can’t someone walk in when I’m painting and say:
“That’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.
Let’s travel to France and make love under the stars”?
My feet are bleeding from standing on pins and needles,
Come on universe, throw me a fucking bone.

may vignette.

These days, I spend my afternoons
traipsing through fields of tall grass and wildflowers,
wafting with the slick stocks and silken stems
as the warm winds from the west whisk across the plains—
carrying the sweet balm of lilac, honeycomb and nectarine—
and pour and push into the wispy chutes
so that they gush and swell like the ocean;
I drift with the docile drafts,
bow with the bellowing blades,
and dip to the dulcet and fluttery trumpeting
of the woodwind reeds.
These days, I sail across the lawn
on a quilt—my raft on this sea of green—
with my guitar, rations of cigarettes, strawberries and sandwiches in wax paper,
and old milk bottles to fill with letters to future lovers
and cast into the waters.
As soft, white fluff slowly sinks
from the cottonwood trees,
I pretend it is nuclear winter
and shoot off bottle rockets.
These days, I follow the train tracks,
leaving behind pennies on the rails.
The sun burns my fair skin red like blooming peonies,
and I wash my body with cool water in cold showers.
And when the moon is full,
I sit on the roof with my black cats,
wishing I could sweep across the sky
on a cinnamon broomstick
and stitch a constellation
in the stars.

"we are here to analyze and report"

A few years ago,
on the morning after Christmas,
I was sitting at the kitchen table
with my aunt eating breakfast.
It was snowing outside—
big, beautiful chunks,
covering the ground like thick,
vanilla cake frosting.
As I was dipping my toast—
drenched with warm, creamy butter—
into my cup of chocolate milk,
my aunt told me about
a dream she had the night before:
“I was in my old house
next to your grandmothers’.
It was late at night,
and I looked out the window
across the street, because
something caught my eye,
and I saw dozens of spaceships landing
in the high school parking lot.
They were beautiful—
their lights shining brilliantly
in every color, like traffic lights
or sunbeams shooting through stained glass.
As the ship doors slid open,
they walked out.
They looked just like us.
I ran outside and across the street
yelling, ‘What are you doing?
You can’t land here, everyone will see you!’
And they calmly replied,
‘Don’t worry Sheryl,
you’re the only one
who can see us.’”

We compared notes on
our own unexplainable sightings.
I told her about the ghosts
I’ve seen on Route 33,
and in my house,
and about the spaceship
I saw out in Plain City,
diving into the cornfields.
She told me about the saucer
she saw with my grandfather
over Lake Erie, how he explained,
“It is definitely not a military jet
or like any plane I’ve ever seen.”
and how after it flew away,
he said: “We speak of this
to no one, understood?
Because no one will believe us.”

I believe.

I believe some of us have
the gift of sight, and we are
sensitive to these happenings.
I still don’t know if it is
a blessing or a curse,
but in the words of my aunt:
“We are here to analyze and report.”
And I will dutifully do so,
because something tells me
I’m not documenting
and keeping these records
in vain.

sentimental motherly advice on the dancefloor at a wedding.

(ella fitzgerald is playing in the background)

“I wouldn’t worry too much
about finding someone,
there’s no doubt in my mind
that you will. And when you do—
whoever it is—just make sure
that they respect you
and treat you well.”

(sidebar: notice the lack of pronouns
and the ambiguous use of “they”—
I’m not polygamous, just gay.
But this may or may not be
an acknowledgement of my sexuality
and a blessing from my mother.
Thank god, because I really
didn’t want to have that conversation,
not because I’m ashamed—
though I’m slightly terrified
of disappointing them—
it’s just a dialogue
I never wanted to initiate.
Imagine, just for a moment,
how uncomfortable and awkward
that conversation would be.
Is it something you can
just casually bring up at dinner
as you’re passing the biscuits?
I think not).

To which I deflected,
“you’ve been drinking,
haven’t you?”

“No, I really mean it,
you’ll find someone.
I know it seems difficult to imagine right now,
but you will find someone.
Just make sure you don’t go into any relationship
thinking you can change the other person.
Because you can’t, and that logic
is a recipe for disaster.
You can only change yourself”.

(which is true,
"it’s only on the brink
that people find the will to change.
Only at the precipice do we evolve".
I guess I’m just waiting for
that defining moment.
I’m ready for my moment.)

“Thanks Mom”.

the month it didn't stop raining.

As the rain started to fall,
I gathered up my chalk pastels
and ran inside.
The colored markings on my concrete canvas
began to deliquesce, melting tragically
like the wicked witch of the west,
swirling into a murky and pasty, homogonous stew
and bled down the driveway into the gutters
until only ghostly remnants and pale contours
of the chalk drawings remained—
even though I was soaked to the bone,
I knew I wouldn’t wash away like my watercolors.

It rained for days.
The roads began to resemble rivers.
Children wrapped in bright yellow rubber
raced boats—folded from old newspaper—
down the flooded streets, and held out their umbrellas,
wishing a mighty gust of wind would carry them off into the sky.
Everyone became really good at hydroplaning.
I wondered if you were safe, warm and dry,
off in a bar somewhere, dazzling
the drunks, convincing them
that you could walk on water.

It continued to rain.
The streets dissolved like sugar candy.
When there was no higher ground to flock to,
everyone collected their precious family heirlooms,
treasures and tomato plants, and built ships:
some assembled makeshift boats
nailing together front doors, dressers and milk crates,
using bed sheets for sails and chandeliers for anchors,
some flipped their homes upside down,
turning them into arcs,
others built cathedrals in the trees
weaving beds in the branches
and nested with the birds.

Still the waters rose.
People’s limbs and wills began to rust.
Some lost their minds:
One man blindly thrusted his toilet plunger
into the sea, hoping to find and force out the clog,
pearl divers—and alcoholics wielding wine keys—
scoured the ocean floors,
searching for a cork to unplug the drain.
Some cast offerings into the salty depths,
hoping to please the rain gods, praying for the sun.
Others took matters into their own hands,
aiming home-made, piped cloudbusters at the sky,
attempting to change the weather.

Still the waters rose.
Salmon swam up the stairs of people’s houses,
coffins in cemeteries
rose from the loosened soil,
breaching the water’s surface
and floated through town like a parade
as their accompanying tombstones
stank like the rocks they were.

There was a time when I believed you were Midas,
because I was convinced everything you touched turned to gold.
Too bad gold sinks.

(Besides, I’d rather spin my own gold
for someone else:
on pins and needles, needles and pins
a patient man grins and grins.
Something in my heart tells me
riding out this storm
will be well worth the wait.)

you won't find love at ladies 80's night.

They say a watched pot never boils,
they also say love comes when you least expect it to.
Now, I’ve been doing my best to shun the metaphorical stove:
I sold my magic pasta pot at a junk yard sale a few months back,
I ceremoniously burned all my cooking instruments
and spinning wheels in a fiery heap—
I ripped out the sink entirely—
I simply left the kitchen with hopes of
somehow activating the laws of attraction via avoidance;
the results have been underwhelming.
Since my leave from the kitchen,
I’ve come to two conclusions:
1. out of sight does not necessarily mean out of mind.
2. avoiding the problem does not make any fucking sense.

When I was in mourning,
and my heart was a pincushion,
I knew what to do.
Even though I couldn’t prevent
the pins and needles from puncturing,
I at least knew what to expect,
I was prepared to hurt,
I was prepared to feel pain,
and I knew I could dress and tend to the wounds,
no matter how raw and tender they were,
and that they would eventually heal,
and that I could take codeine for pain.
Now that my heart is a black hole
I’m at a loss.
I don’t know how to fill this void.

If there is one thing I do know, it is this:
love is the answer.
I can feel it in my bones.
I can feel it when I’m climbing alone into an empty bed.
I want to conjure up something beautiful
I want to put a pearl in the ground,
I want to bury something precious
and watch it grow into something incredible.
And I want to do this WITH somebody.

And I know, for certain, that I won’t find him
at ladies 80’s night downtown.



I am aching to love.

Here I am.
I am ready.
Where are you?

these days.

These days, I wake just before dawn,
waxing with the sun in muted moments of pale luminosity,
and paint the east with the watercolors of morning.
Butter and cream melt across the milky heavens;
blushing roses subtly rouge the fair cheeks of daybreak—
and as the last stars are washed away
and the majestic, golden chandelier breaches the horizon,
thick streams of lustrous light glaze the sky with honey
and seep through my blinds, collecting like porridge
in syrupy pools of warmth on my bed,
heating my naked body.
These days, I whistle with the birds in their early morning reprise
and send my own mating song out into the wild.
I mow crop circles in the lawn signaling the aliens.
I paint my lips with red wine, and coat my lungs in tar.
I strum the dirty blues on the front porch,
and sit a spell with my kindred company in sturdy rocking chairs.
And when the skies darken and begin to brew
we back up the ’97 jeep Cherokee to the house
climb up the hood and onto the top of the car,
hoist ourselves onto the roof of the house
and welcome the storm
with sparklers and rockets.

on courtship

and sometimes
it seems the only thing
you can do
is cry out your mating song
and hope to god
that someone
will want to
harmonize with you.

a lover's discourse.

As we were catching up, you asked me,
"Do you have any love interests?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Who?" you queried.
And I responded, "Oh,
no one specifically,
I'm just interested in love in general."

memo to self:

stop making love to make people love me.










It doesn't work.

I tried,

and as much as I want to,
I can't find it within myself
to feel happy for you.

secrets of the south.

As the resilient honeybees
make their return from the grave,
I take my own leave
in search of their vitality.
I pack my treasures in silken bundles
and stick-tied handkerchiefs,
oil the rusted hinges in my legs with red wine
and head south.

I’ll follow the dirt roads
trimmed with weathered, wooden houses
painted in creamy pastels,
their screened-doors opening onto
sturdy front porches supporting rocking chairs
and tall glasses of homemade lemonade and vodka.
I’ll trace the lines of laundry blowing in the wind,
passed the southern cross-windmills and vegetable gardens.
I’ll gossip with the wild flowers—
daises, honeysuckles, tart cherries and bluebonnet;
the Queen Anne’s lace blotted with blood
as thick and fresh as the juice
dripping from the blackberries—
and follow their directions
to the corn fields.

Here, I’ll pitch my tent,
under the crescent moon
and the buttery stars
slipping across the sky.
And if meteors should begin to fall
I won’t seek shelter—
I’m more than well-practiced
in the art of dodging houses
falling from the sky—
I’ll simply open my pillowcase
and then pawn my plunders
to the devil at the cross-roads
in exchange for
the secrets of the south.

on bad taste.

And when people wonder
why you're still single,
you can turn to them
and casually respond:
"it's because the curtains
in my bedroom are hideous,
obviously".

This is the only reason I can think of.

on unnecessary reminders.

"I'd rather not reminisce this.
I'm not ashamed,
it was just a lot of
unnecessary heartache."

"You know you enjoyed it."

Fuck you.

but you are, my love, the astronaut.

As satellites fall from the milky heavens
studding the fields of Wisconsin in luminous pearls,
and airborne volcanic ash grounds flights all over Europe,
it seems like the end of the world.
Plunderers raid the Midwest farmlands, hunting for fallen stars,
global travel was brought to an unexpected and alarming halt.
However, amidst the chaos, reports of humanity emerged:
“It was so beautiful to be in an airport during a crisis time.
Everybody talks to each other and shares their stories.
I wish the world was always like that.
It’s not.”

To be festive, I watched Armageddon.
And I hoped, as Bruce Willis sacrificed himself to save the world,
that there is an astronaut somewhere out there
willing to risk his life
to save mine.

testing the waters.

I’m a skeptic.
It runs in the family.
Every time it storms
I gather my treasures in a wooden milk crate—
prepared to seek shelter in the cellar—
on the off chance that the mighty winds
of the darkened heavens will swirl and coalesce around
the yearning finger of a seduced god,
and a silken tornado
will breach the murky skies
and slip down to briefly caress
the flattened breasts of the exposed Ohio plains.
I have a collection of tomato sauce jars
accumulating on my window sill
filled with water and oil
from the nights when I’m not quite convinced
that the liquids will separate.
I rub salt in my wounds,
and purposely burn my fingers on the hot stove
just to make sure that my nerve endings
are still functioning properly,
to feel the burning,
to make certain that I’m still human,
to confirm that I can still feel.

I'm restless.
I want to skip town.
Part of me wants to run off and join the circus
and disappear into the sunset in a patchwork parade of lions
and ladies in shimmering ball-gowns carrying leather whips,
but I’m a country boy at heart.
It’s spring, and I want nothing more
than to fly my kite from my rooftop,
and climb my neighbor’s magnolia tree,
and play my guitar on the front porch,
and send hollyhock dolls and newspaper boats down the river,
and get lost in a cornfield.
It’s the little things that count.
[I can’t raise a barn,
but I can build you a sturdy cathedral
out of chairs and bed sheets.
I can’t spin straw into gold,
but I can unspool a trail of thread
to guide you home.
I can’t steer a ship,
but I can wait for you
out on the widow’s peak.
I can’t lasso a horse,
but I can exhale
twisting smoke ladders to the stars
and hand you the moon.]

Winter has long since passed
but I’m still thawing.
I’ve been taking things bird by bird,
day by day,
limb by limb,
phrase by phrase.
I’ve been stirring hurricanes in teacups
but I don’t know if this is the right approach.
I want an ocean.
I want someone to melt my icebergs
and test my waters.

a haunting, a reality; familial confessions.

“When I was about five years old,
I remember waking up one night
and sitting up in my bed
and I saw a figure dressed in black
in the hallway staring into your room.
I couldn’t see its eyes because it had
its hood pulled up over its head.”

-e. goetz, my sister, April 3rd, 2010 in the toysrus parking lot

a haunting

Hardly anyone believes me when I tell them
I’ve seen ghosts on the banks of the river.
They dwell just beyond the half-hearted reaches
and pensive fingertips of my dim headlights,
and in the corners of my eyes.
I used to write off the ineffable as coincidence,
when the stars would disappear
and the street lamps suddenly turned off—
as though they were snuffed out—
or when the car radio would dial into haywired
frequencies that did not exist.

I have seen shadows darting between the worn
headstones of soldiers from the civil war
that embroider the river road;
they sometimes coalesce at the crests
of the Indian burial mounds.
I have counted the weathered crosses
marking accidental drownings,
and I have, on more than one occasion,
noted my headlights reflecting off of
hundreds of glistening shards
of broken glass from fatal automobile accidents,
and the iced road is just so beautiful
I momentarily forget
the scene is supposed to be tragic.

I used to consider these fleeting apparitions precocious
and light-hearted reminders of the transience of life,
and I was humbled, and thankful.
Until one night, I saw tall, delicate figures,
standing stagnant; gaunt and gauzy,
wrapped in reams of drapery
darker than the seas at night.
Some pointing out to the river,
others, merely watching.
Although their faces were masked by the depths of their hoods,
I knew, with every fiber of my being, that they saw me.
With gazes stronger than the molding oranges in my kitchen,
burning holes right through the countertop,
I was certain they could see into my soul.

I remembered six years back, seeing
a similar silhouette tightly clutching the banister
as it leaned over the railing of my staircase,
just staring at me.
I remembered my heart beating so hard it was painful.
I remembered looking again and seeing an empty hallway.
I remembered all the times I wanted to die and suddenly knew I was not ready.
When I told my mother, she questioned my sobriety;
I promised her I hadn’t dropped acid since I was sixteen.
“I’ve seen those damn things every single time I drive down that road,” I asserted.
“Some things in life just cannot be explained,” she offered,
“This is when we pray.”

Sure, we are so brave during the day,
armed with company and our faith,
and guarded by the sun.
But as the sun dips beneath the treetops
and the shadows begin to stretch across the land
I’m willing to bet that even if I paper-mached my car in bible pages
no amount of praying would save me from the night
or protect me from the dark.

.

and I hate how you've affected me the way you have.

throw me a bone.

I feel more than eligible.
I feel more than able.
I feel more than worthy.
I feel more than capable.
I feel more than prepared.

Let me show you what I've got tucked up my sleeve.

hallucinations.

Last night I bought two bottles of wine,
and I hallucinated your name written on one of them.
But when I woke in the morning—
with a headache to such a painful degree—
I knew I had drank them both by myself.

I could have sworn I heard your voice
echoing in the belly of my guitar
and resonating off of its strings.
I must have been mistaken.

restrung and rejuvenated.

As winter takes its final parting shots—
rouging my pale cheeks strawberry red one last time,
and trimming and embroidering the windowpanes with frosted tracery,
inscribing in the latticed glaze an icy vow to return again next year
in elegant, needle-laced, crystalline calligraphy,
I can’t help but resign that surviving this season
wasn’t as hard as I had anticipated;
winter was relatively tame.
The weather didn’t turn my tricks to rust,
I didn’t lose any limbs to the cold,
I kept my heart incubated,
and even though I had to literally dig myself out of winter
I made it out unscathed.
And I once again find myself
out on the front porch, perched in a wicker chair
next to my kindred company,
armed with coffee and cigarettes,
spells and charms,
freshly restrung guitars and the devil’s crossroads blues,
bathing in the sunlight,
rejuvenated by its rays,
ready to take on the world.

the golden age.

And as we sat exchanging anecdotes and theories,
I couldn’t help but feel particularly Roman:
draped in silken sheets and woven pashmina shawls—
hand-spun from the finest wool and stitched with hundreds of colors of thread—
sipping sweet red wine, bottled almost two decades ago,
lounging on cushioned fainting couches
arranged around a beautiful coffee table,
feasting on bars of bitter dark chocolate
and smoking rolled tobacco of the most delectable Turkish blend—
the living room was our colosseum
and that night, we were royalty.
We discussed poetry and politics,
art and the apocalypse,
love and life.
We fantasized about being famous
and how one day our great works of art and fiction
would be published and analyzed in the universities.
Like Hemmingway and Gertrude Stein
in their parlors, everyone would talk about
how we too collected in the same social circle,
and sat around inspiring each other.

surprise me.

Everyone always asks me how you are, assuming I talk to you every day.
Everyone always asks me where you are, assuming you're supposed to be with me.
That just isn't the case.
I've been living my life with no expectations,
because no expectations means no disappointments,
only surprises.
Stop having such high expectations for me,
I'll only disappoint you.
Besides, I just want to be surprised.

a change of heart.

And just like that,
with one quick flick of the wrist,
he knocked the bowl and cake batter off the kitchen table,
letting it spatter violently all over the flowered wallpaper and the floor,
for he was tired of making cakes for others
who didn't appreciate his baking.
"This time, someone can bake a cake for me," he decided
as patted the flour out of his clothes,
got in his car, lit a cigarette
and drove off into the day.

the bed.

We slip through the wooden, maple syrup stained doors of my bedroom,
traipsing blindly over the patches of yesterday’s clothes I shed;
seas of rose wine ebb and flow like the tides in our guts
as we collapse poetically on my mattress.
I spot one of my stuffed toys on the sheets
and swiftly launch it across the room.
“What was that?” you ask knowingly, yet in jest.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I deflect.
“What was that?” you press, prying for a confession.
“Some nights, I pretend it’s human,” I explain reluctantly,
my cheeks red like strawberries.
“You won’t need that tonight,” you promise, grinning.
“Obviously,” I mumble.
“Why do you sleep with so many clothes on?” you tease.
“I’m getting there,” I sputter, slowly undressing.
This is my nest; I will not be picked on in my own bed.

My fingertips trace your contour like crayons,
slipping smoothly into every nook,
dipping delicately around every curve, calligraphically,
gliding like warm butter over every leavened drift,
across every subtle protrusion of your stretched canvas,
charting your tapered terrain, graphing your gait,
carefully stenciling your strong and sturdy silhouette,
investigating the borders of your fleshy landscape.
You’re taller than me, and I am thankful.
I knead your thighs like dough.
You reach your arm across the hills of my hips,
and your fingers climb my ribcage and my collarbones with ease,
stopping to thumb the crux of my clavicles,
flicking the knot that is my Adam’s apple
and gingerly grip my neck,
as though you are afraid to fall from such great heights.
We kiss.
You press my back into your chest;
I sit in the chair that is your thighs,
Our legs entangle,
Our palms meet,
Our fingers interlace,
Our bodies intertwine.

I feel your heartbeat, your rhythm;
I try to match it.
I feel your breath on my neck,
the warmth of your body against mine;
we split the heat.
You wrap your arms around me.
Your muscles harden as your grip tightens.
And as I melt into you,
I think to myself:
This is what it must feel like to be human.

“Thank you.”

cigarette break from the family kitchen

The scored gashes of the cutting board seared—
the aroma slicing like tined sword fish.
I wiped the salt and the seas from my lids,
thankful for the onions, the knife, the cry.

My silvery aunt suggested fresh air,
after noting the room smelled like brine;
cutting and weeping was therapeutic,
but I was jonesing for a cigarette.

We crept out, even though everyone knew
our code—what “getting fresh air” really meant.
We sipped sweet chemicals through paper straws
exhaling twining crow’s nests to the moon.

We climbed, searching for my dead grandfather.
We were prepared—unspooling anecdotes,
uncorking bottled histories, leaving
behind a rich trail of pearls in the stars.

“Like golden thread to guide him home” I said,
knowing all to well his ship wouldn’t breach
the horizon. And when the satellites
come crashing down, I’ll have my memories.

"Washington shivers, Moscow laughs"

We bundle, making sure all exposed skin is covered,
as not to entice a bite from February’s icy jaw.
We wear our scarves like dust masks—
as though this is some nuclear winter,
but it’s hardly a cold war out there.
Across the sea—more than well-practiced in the art
of surviving the cold—Russia scoffs.
“America is resilient, until it snows.”
And as I hopelessly try to shovel myself out of winter,
I wonder what life would be like if it
only consisted of springs and autumns.
I hallucinate a bird singing, only for it to be replaced
with the overwhelming silence of falling snow,
and as much as I miss the lilacs and the magnolias—
I would miss this serenity even more.

on growing up.

No one likes admitting defeat,
Especially when you were more than sure that you were right.
With the evidence stacked as high as it was—
Higher than the dirty dishes in the sink,
Higher than the cathedrals of cigarette butts
Rising from their ashtray foundations—
Pockets full of posies and proof,
And piles upon piles of fervent witness testimonial stacked in your favor,
You knew, you were certain
That heads would roll.
There was no possible way you could be wrong.
There was no possible way that the jury could find him
Not guilty.

Except
You’re the jury.
And you’ve reached an unexpected verdict:
He’s innocent.



I’ve spent a lot of time deconstructing myself,
Lying on Freud’s metaphorical, velvety, cum-stained couch
Consulting my imaginary arm-chair psychologist,
Melting the glue
And chiseling away at the pieces of my broken ego,
Peeling off the layers like an onion,
And I realized
You were right.


I’ve realized I am indeed too young.
I still have a lot of growing to do.


You once told me:
“You’re like a bottle of fine wine,
You have to be opened at the right age
Or else it’s spoiled”.
At first, I wanted to bludgeon you with that bottle,
Slit your throat with the shards
And then note how ironically appropriate a wine comparison was
Coming from an alcoholic;
I drank away my sorrows instead.


Now, I’m raising high the white flags.
Lousy metaphors aside: you were right.
I still have growing to do.



Today is my best friend’s birthday.
She’s twenty.
I’m twenty.
I called her and we shrieked about
How frightening it is to no longer be teenagers.
At first we felt old;
She started whittling a cane
And I popped a painkiller
Because that’s what old people do, right?

But then we realized
We’re so young, we’re so goddamn young.
Assuming we both die at eighty of lung cancer
We still have sixty fucking years to go.
So much time to learn.
So much time to grow.

(We also noted how it’s a miracle that we’re alive today,
How we had both assumed we’d be dead by eighteen.
“Live fast and die young” we used to say.
And we meant it.
We don’t feel that way anymore.)


I’m excited to learn,
I’m excited to love,
I’m excited to live,
I’m excited to grow.


I’m just sorry you don’t want to be around to watch the process.
You could’ve been an excellent teacher.

on physics.

if we cut our hearts out of our chests and threw them off of a building, whose would hit the ground first, mine or yours? hint: the laws of gravity do not apply.

suppose.

Suppose the dishes in the sink were never washed,
and they just kept mountaining to overwhelming heights
until they broke through the ceiling
and the plaster coated our heads like dandruff.
Would you climb it with me?

Suppose we scaled that summit of silverware and glass
with just our hands, convictions and wills,
do you think we'd make it to the top
or would we have to lighten our load?

Suppose we rested along the way,
and you were starving to death—
if I slipped my hand in one of the ceramic crevices,
would I find that cake I baked for you, so many months ago, untouched?
This time, would you eat it?

Suppose I didn't know my way around the kitchen,
would you still love me regardless?

Suppose I pushed you off the side,
would you, like a dish, shard into a million porcelain pieces,
or would you survive the fall unscathed?

Suppose I just did the dishes,
would you then stay home for dinner
or would you still go out to eat instead?

the great eclipse of 1831

Everyone knew it was coming.
On the day of the eclipse
Business was suspended
For every man, woman and child was stargazing.
Peering through panes of smoked glass,
Necks outstretched, pupils dilated,
America anxiously watched—
Some choking on their Adam’s apples,
Others gripping their quivering hearts.
Most praying, a few drinking—
As daylight waned
And the inky moon,
As though dipped in oil,
Snuffed out the sun.

“Keep your gaze turned up towards the heavens”
My graying aunt tells me.
“They’re coming for us, I promise”

I believe the tales my aunt spins,
Because she believes in my own lunacy,
And I happily swallow her advice.
Each night, I watch the empty sky, waiting,
Hoping to catch a glimpse
Of an alien lightshow,
Ready to mow crop circles
In my front yard
Asking them kindly
To beam me up off of this planet.

And I’d never look back.

anniversary

I remember sitting in the kitchen by the telephone, waiting.
A friend was standing at the stove, watching water boil,
Another was crouching under the table
More than sure the sky was about to fall,
That the world was ending.
Addie was in the bathroom
Pissing on a pregnancy test.
We were all waiting.

I had just fallen out of a relationship—
My heart was raw.
You had just turned twenty-four
And you had an age complex.
You thought that I was too young for you,
So you fled the scene, like a child.

I tried to warm myself with a cup of piping hot coffee—
An attempt to psychically fan and rekindle the flames of dying love.
I burnt my tongue instead.

And as I pressed my hand to the window, the cold burned me through the glass as well.
The sky was grey, the landscape barren and dead.
It was winter, and we all wanted to die.

For a brief moment
I too believed the sky was falling
So I quickly drew the curtains
Shielding us from the world,
Trying to hide from the painful truths
Of our reality.

Addie emerged.
She was pregnant.
“How do I kill it?” she asked
As the water boiled over the brim of the pot.




It’s January
You recently turned twenty-five.
And still I find myself
Waiting by the telephone,
Waiting
For you to grow up
And call me.