An Ode to Frank O'Hara

Please excuse me for the day 

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

The Wife

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Call, 4:09 AM

Your mother calls

to inform me you're locked down

for a 72-hour observational hold

at the Trenton County psych ward,

and I should've realized 

something 

wasn't 

quite

right

when I saw you pulled a Britney Spears--

with an uncharacteristically militant haircut 

and a dye-job as cheap looking as the 

strawberry shortcake shade 

on the 10 dollar 

at-home coloring kit box--

amber as the alerts

now ringing like

air raid sirens

in my ears. 

I'm sorry

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

I send smoke signals from my cigarette;

I'm feeling particularly removed 

from you, across three state lines. 

I attempt to find solace in knowing

we're sleeping under the same constellations.

Do you see what I see?

Did the full moon trigger your psychoses? 

I would still love you if you transformed 

into a werewolf--I once fucked and octopus

in my dreams--surely, we could

make this work. 

I imagine you in your hospital bed, 

playing dead and eavesdropping 

on your roommate as he whispers 

to flowers in the wallpaper. 

You look good in white, I think to myself. 

I drag the rivers of my mind,

sifting for the scrap

of evidence that ties you

to my unarguably unhinged

contemporaries; 

no clues emerge,

only bodies breach the surface: 

Andy the meth-head, 

who was found by the cops

sneaking around in the ditches

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

wearing nothing but his birthday suit

and a rung of brass knuckles. 

Crystal, with her frazzled aqua-marine curls,

waltzing in the middle of the road--

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

in a soiled ball gown and 

twirling a fully decorated

artificial christmas tree

above her head. 

Bam Senate, who handcuffed himself

to a wheel chair, lifted the breaks

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

into freedom, he told us after.  

And Holly, who convinced even me

that we weren't alone that night, 

that the blue car had followed us home, 

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

I thought you said you locked the door. 

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

You heard those footsteps too, 

right?

No. 

You're not the one whose crazy. 

Your father tells me you'll call 

when you get better, 

and I wonder if that means 

once the benzos kick in, 

or once the shock therapy 

shows signs of success. 

I begin to dissect every moment we ever spent together; 

your fervent infatuation could have just as easily been mania… 

No.

I feel embarrassed for questioning your authenticity. 

Still, 

I could 

drive myself 

mad 

wondering 

what they're doing to you in there,

and if you'll still love me 

when you get 

out. 

In California

In California, 

my cousin and I declare our own section of the sand

marked by our 75 cent woven mats from Walgreens

and impermanent territorial lines 

drawn into the beach. 

We consider poetry structures and Kant

and our inferior tans

as glistening bodies shimmer in the sun. 

In California, 

I want to stitch together

a mermaid tail from seaweed and kelp, 

braid octopus into my hair

and lounge aloofly--

like a supermodel--

in the salty surf. 

In California, 

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

In California, 

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

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

But I feel sorry for them because they will never experience 

the magic that is winter

or drift asleep to the lull of falling snow. 

In California, 

I prefer evergreens to palm trees;

which would Jesus rather decorate

to celebrate his birthday?

In California, 

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

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

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

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

In California, 

I crave my boyfriend more so 

than I do when I'm in New York, 

and fail to account for time zones

when I call him at 11 PM--

Pacific Time. 

In California, 

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

something to do with body mass and equilibrium, 

and our relative distance from the tropic of cancer, 

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

In California, 

my heart is heavier, for in California, 

my grandmother passed several months ago. 

In California, 

I am intensely aware of my own mortality. 

In California, 

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

and my cousin has nightmares about traveling in airports

with her body. 

In California, 

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

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

In California, 

I move a woman to tears

with a song about birds at the memorial service, 

and she gives me the sparkling bluebird pendant 

hanging from her blouse. 

In California, 

I witness my father cry 

for the very first time in my life. 

In California, 

I toe the line where the sand meets the sea

and wonder what lies beyond. 

a return

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

the crux.

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

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

Except I am none of these things.

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

"Untitled" by Kevin Jones

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

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

this summer

I'm going to get a tattoo, take pills, and play with my friends.

I cut out my tongue.

Articulation used to feel so natural.
I am out of practice.
I never considered myself a master of rhetoric and language,
but I prided myself in my ability to fluidly and coherently
translate my thoughts into words.
I was my own best stenographer—
dutifully and obediently transcribing
my investigations, analyses and conclusions,
passions, anxieties and recollections of time and place
into sentences, stringing my sentiments together
like pearls on a necklace.
With my metaphorical spinning wheel,
I would try my best to make sense of my situations,
spinning straw into gold, twisting wool into a unified thread,
and trying to weave these errant strands into a blanket of understanding.
This process used to feel so effortless.
And it was therapeutic.

These days, expression is like
prying impacted teeth,
like I’m grasping at straws, and trying, in vain,
to pull the unbudging sword from the stone.

Articulation was much easier when I was writing for someone.
I wanted to be eloquent. I wanted to be graceful.
I wanted to communicate matters of the heart
soundly, thoroughly and candidly.

Bereavement has yielded a loss for words.

A friend recently told me that he has an affinity for my art
because I don’t create for a larger audience.
I create for just one other.
He saw that my art-making acts as a quiet action waiting to be noticed
by an object of affection, and explained that the beauty behind my art
resided in my actions going unnoticed.

I fail to see that beauty.

The state of my union is not well.
I feel immobilized.
I feel alienated.
I feel alone.
I want to write for someone.
I want to paint for someone.
I want to sing for someone.
I want to nest for someone.
And now that I can’t, I feel frozen.
I don’t know what to do.

I don’t feel relevant.
I don’t feel poignancy.
I don’t feel like I have anything important to say.

I made love the content of my life.
Love is what kept me invested.
But when your mating call goes unanswered,
what are you supposed to do?
You can only sing for so long before losing for voice.
You can only spend so many nights out on the widow’s peak,
furiously scanning the horizon,
before losing your will to continue.

I hate sounding so desperate,
But I am desperate.

I want to do things for myself,
but it feels entirely too selfish.

I would feel the greatest joy
in having the opportunity
to make someone happy.

I know boys don't wear jewels, but I'd wear a string of your pearls.

I’ve whispered with the wild flowers stitched onto my mattress,
and gossiped with the wives living in the watercolors on my walls—
they know how anxious I am to love.
Sometimes, we’ll burn the midnight oil—
under a cathedral built from wooden chairs, broomsticks and old bed sheets—
sipping a sweetened whisky brew,
gathering wool and spinning his golden image
from straw and scraps of fancy:

Sturdy and steadfast, graceful and diplomatic.
Eloquent and sincere, protecting and warm.
An explorer with unfamiliar insights and uncharted anecdotes,
a composer of ballads, an inventor of art and poetry,
humbly eliciting beauty,
modestly emanating ingenuity.
A relic, a treasure, a lion tamer, a bee charmer.
A lover of the rarest form.

Not without imperfections, of course,
but who isn’t?

I do not care for furs or silks,
ruby slippers or parlor tricks,
just oil paint and turpentine,
velvet and veins,
our fingers interlaced,
my body folding perfectly into his.

I see his smoky silhouette
spindling from the tip of my cigarette,
He is luminous,
and my eyes light up brilliantly like chandeliers.
He has half-moons under his nails.
He grips my neck,
my cheeks are as red as his lips.

And he thinks I’m beautiful.

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.