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.