Tuesday, September 20, 2016

February, 2015

I’ve looked for the prompt, I’ve waited with the best of them, for the waiter. For the menu. For the last time at the very least.

I don’t have your brow. I don’t even have that much sweat. I don’t bray. And I had very little to say in January. For the last time.

I’ve rubbed until fleshy flexes and tenses and changes against my own touching. At the very least.

I wait for my ankles not to be cold, but to still be uncovered. This is not a revelation. It’s not even pretty.

Sunday, January 10, 2016

The Famous Person

I wanted to tell the story of the famous person I met who I did not know was famous. He was a writer and a director and an artist and a predator. I told several different versions in several different ways and let my audience guess to whom I owe my nonchalance, my air of mystery, my disinterest in the profane.

Thursday, August 6, 2015

In Leo

I am not fodder for or part of a collection of another award-winning story. I am not above being genderless, or so I am told, and must then be too vacant for you. I am not well-curated collections of photographs for public display and dissent for you to earn a reputation for your eye. My face belies my talentlessness. So then, for whom is the bell distant enough to be flat intonations of a grand romance that never had a chance in the day to day? I am prudent enough that I can refer to all my yesterdays as my younger years. And everything I cannot say out loud, my penchant for ruining the punchline, my inability to twist and turn and otherwise weave a decent tale, both my fear of and desire for performativity, I will write it all down.

Saturday, January 3, 2015

In December


The buoy isn’t the question – it’s an entire fucking language. And the salt in the water doesn’t do much for thirst or for hunger. It is simply a sensory experience.

Whatever fence it is, may I never be a story you tell.

Beware of hungry love. Beware of easy confessions.

It’s not my heart, is it? It’s my bowels. And eventually I’ll empty. Time will empty all open wounds. I’ll bleed out and somehow fill it back up.

Because I was wrong, you know how to reach me. I’ve left all of my emergency contacts at home, in the bin.

From W.H. Auden’s The More Loving One:
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky

W.B. Yeats: Never give all the heart
“Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that’s lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

A.E. Housman:
“He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.
I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,
And went with half my life about my ways.”

Oh have you lost and the losing is convulsive and violent and unrelenting and turbulent. The waves are sudden, nauseating, hateful.

“Anything I do in my life I can do because you love me.”

I fell in love with you today. As if sentence fragments were enough. And tomorrow, what is gone is also gone.

“We could live in Hell together…”

“Send him to me again.”



Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Whatever fence it is...

... may I never be a story you tell.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.”

-Pablo Neruda

Thursday, December 11, 2014

In November

November 4th
And now the November you could not have seen in me, or me in Paris. I would not have fit in so nicely, I would not withstand the warmth. I was hiding or trapped in the burning synagogues and mosques, set alight. You cannot know when I moved.

I did not see your show.

Why do you ask? You were not looking for me all night. You basked instead and came to me a month later, in the middle of the night, so I could pick and pull and point out you still weren’t listening. You weren’t looking or listening, but I know you saw something. What did you see?

Take that, take care, sad guitar. Heavy hurricanes, heavy strums. Heavy foot traffic, every movie that never was my life.

How many notes had I written or not written or written and not sent?

I see easy, I see casual, I don’t see the work. I am fine with the conventionality and I beat myself up for choosing someone so difficult. But now I get to think about what’s next. I get to reject racking up more disappointment. I’m not so overboard.

How long did we think this is we or imagine it with someone else? How long did we think this would count? How long were the first three years, the next five weeks, the last nine months in sum in total? Come to the edge and count backward to the second and then the first, to extend it to what date as soon as possible and as long as it still matters.

Rousseau is indeed following me, in life and in death. In music and in writing. The leg shakes, the sounds are all internal, and I hear the release of pressure in my head, in my sinuses, in my flimsy observations.
It is all part of the process.

Sing it again. This time with potential. Because I have not yet had enough of your bullshit and I send a postcard from a familiar land outlining all our successes. And if there’s one thing ________ taught me, that means I told you about our failures.
            Leave the door alone, let it open and close as it pleases, and it pleases me.
            Perhaps that’s what the letting part of letting go is – one big presumable failure overshadowing and upstaging all the small moments of falling fast asleep at the wheel. There was more letting in than that. We slackened the line, hooked up, and sinker. 

Because the body talks back, tells me all the things you used to tell me. Do you remember when you called me because you felt like you needed a hug? I need a hug. And this time it’s not just my libido doing all the work.

Expectation is a prevention measure; codeine is a prevention measure from dusk until dawns later. In between, I keep my head down, but my eyes opened. This is not Paris – I do not see you everywhere.

How many times a day does your heart drop when you think it’s me? Do you feel it when my bus passes by? Do you know when I’m standing nearby or right outside?

I have no way to see you. I have concert tickets. I’ve picked up my own postcards. You will read the postmark date. The city.

3.5 and counting. This is like a cigarette, isn’t it? I don’t see any immediacy. I can’t see harm. I can’t feel harm, at least initially. All I can do is find the coldest corners of the room.

I cannot come to you, because you will say no. I’m not strong enough to give you the power to reject me and to disappoint me again. And again. And again.

But come back to me. I will take you back again. And again. And again.

You are not around this city. And I love the way it moves in relation. Don’t you miss your chances and your choices?

Everyone’s asking we’ve got ideas. They are slow, leaky hisses and watery results.
Come back, I beg to bargain, I beg for teacher. Finally down outwardly winding roads. Finally down anthills and apologies to those other guys.

Everyone is asking for you, everyone claws at the messenger, everyone’s holsters were emptied at the door, everyone’s cocktails hiss and everyone sloshes against me.

My body is not my own.
To listen to the music.
To leave the room alone.

I keep saying my needs are none. My needs are none, as if that would be enough to re-win your favor. I keep saying I have no expectations, but you have me on bended knee, with bated breath, reaching my hand through mail slots to dig out the postcard I should not have sent.

Because I did have expectations. I was waiting. I would keep taking you back, but I won’t run back myself.


Have I said enough? Had I, I’m sorry? Were I wolf out on limbs, were I sad public tears.
I saw you enough to know I’d take care of you.

Neither center nor helm nor knit nor raggedy t-shirt.

I was never certain. Only horrible. You won every time, but the winning wasn’t grand enough and I resented you for your success. I had to test out every challenge your love imposed, but accepted neglect with open arms. Don’t misunderstand, you were the attentive lover.

But it wasn’t enough for you either, was it? Although I was too much, I was never much in the right way.