Skip navigation

Now there is time enough for other stories.

Not my half-baked aphorisms and navel-gazing,

so many strands of lint tied together to let my tall tales scramble

out and down and away from the steaming entrails–the flaming wreckage of myself.

 

The fire’s out and now it’s cold enough for squirrels fat

and lazily curled together in the blackened pit that was my furnace,

nesting in the shredded papers that meant so much before

and serve a better purpose now, rustling against two slow heartbeats.

 

There is space now in the crook of my neck for the top of your head

and at the top of your head for the touch of my lips, beloved.

Space now for silence.

 

Enough of me–I know my self at least well enough

to know that those stories will keep without the telling.

 

Speak.

Advertisements

It’d be a lie to put some words to paper,
to say I have a way to express
anything that’s in my head and worth
expressing. I haven’t- the bits of truth
exist, and they are butterfly beautiful,
beyond my clumsy tries to pin them to the page.

I have no wonderful words for you, today.

Several weeks ago, now- a face appeared on the lid of my mayonnaise jar. I should have told you this sooner; it wasn’t the pope or the virgin mary or any other bullshit thing like that. It was just an honest to god smiley face, but real thin like it could have been written there. Of course, it’s gone today- and my first thought this morning was:

“It fucking figures.” But I realize that’s not fair.

Don’t worry, I haven’t stopped eating sandwiches. The mayo doesn’t taste quite the same, naturally. But the spinach is crisp, the onions still bite at the inside of my mouth, and the tomato always soaks through before I get to lunch. There’s a lot more to enjoying a sandwich than a Rorschach blot on the jar, I guess.

Girl, I like you, but I don’t like the way you make my mattress just another piece of furniture. I’m glad it doesn’t hurt my stomach now when you leave, I just don’t know what that means.

At the age of 25
I came home after
working 16 hours.

I heated up a pot
of Dinty Moore
from a can, and waited.

It was warm and salty,
with whole grain bread
to help me shit better.

I thought while I ate.
And then some more,
right after, brushing.

I sat on the edge
of my mattress,
I kicked off my shoes.

My feet smelled
like old cheese and
a three-day sweat.

“Well” I thought,
and not much else.
But sleep felt good.

Your rosebush-tangled hair- the kind that gets
me into trouble. It doesn’t know which way
it’s going and you can’t keep it down (your eyes:
blue, laughing; my eyes: brown).

I hit the interstate in a shit-
ass ’94, roll down the windows and shatter
the sound barrier with my off-key singing.

Eyes blue- laughing. You tilt your head
when you look at me, and I think you’re in on it.
My wavy brown bedhead-tangled accomplice.

I don’t need to see them to imagine legs in cut-off
jeans, propped up on the dashboard. Eyes still laughing
their blue conspiracy; but your face is lost on me.

My eyes blind to everything but too-slow traffic and
these dotted white lines. Feeling that absence-
that empty space the wind leaves when it takes my breath
back out the passenger’s side.

My hand in your lap, palm open-
yours wrapped around your seat’s head-cushion.
We can’t ignore the rushing of the wind.

The NRA For the Rest of Us.

Something flowery
about pushing fingertips
against fingertips; melting.

The look on your face
when you forget yourself.

Stop. Only three things matter:

You are here
and I am here-
choosing to stay together.

I want to call and tell you
that I drank a glass of lemon water, with vitamin;
ate rotisserie chicken, watched television, and then ate some more chicken.
Pass along vague feelings-
of unease and boredom and my overwhelming need
to know just what you had for dinner today,
or how many times (exactly) you peed.

Call and share this strange fascination I’m developing
for the tiniest minutiae of our lives apart.

But I have this overwhelming fear
of voicemail, so it goes- and so
instead I watch some great kung-fu, and
masturbate (it’s not so great, at times it feels mechanical).

Living (in the moment) is for suckers,
now’s the time to let the seasons change.

To Whom It May Concern:

Salutations, sir or madam.

If you are receiving this letter, then you or your loved one (henceforth referred to as “you”) have been affected by my past or present behavior(s). This is a statement of apology, sincerely proffered as a heartfelt attempt to ameliorate any feelings of anger, sadness, abandonment, bewilderment, loss, and/or resentment that I may have created as a result of my action(s).

In the hope that it may be of some consolation, I would like to inform you that I greatly cherished the time we spent together. Examples of the aforementioned time may include (but are not limited to) .

While you may not have been aware of this, during this same period I spent a great deal of time . These were associated with feelings of , that were greatly improved by time spent with you.