I'm cracking. I'm numb.

A September angel

whispered "espero,"

breathing eternity

scandalously.

I'm cracking.

I'm numb.

Her bare body

is smoldering sex

with the pull of her fingers

across her belly.

I'm cracking.

I'm numb.

Her invisible brother

could be insatiable

but is hiding underneath

a shell of a shawl.

I'm cracking.

I'm numb.

untitled 8-30

"I want to believe... that a song

drifting on invisible waves still exists somewhere." Betsy Sholl

I want to believe you exist.

Riding woe the same way I do,

you're catching waves until we meet.

You're holding secrets that make blood-red sleeves

the way I'm holding secrets in my pockets.

You're catching eyes that drift right by,

but you've never found a fit.

Because you want to dance on moonlit shores

twinkling your stars with the beat.

Because your heart is pulling with the tides

the way mine pulls just for yours.

Because right now you do exist somewhere

sitting lonely on a pier.

And I want to meet you and be the

musical whisper in your ear.

There are stories choking my heart.

Her story begins with

acid wash jeans

and closed fist beatings,

midnight screams

and vague notions of nothings.

His story is full of

healing scars

and tattooed feelings,

ancient poems

and feeling alone.

She's all about looking good-

high-end fashion

and men with passion,

attention to detail

and half-price retail.

He's in love with drugs-

cheap thrills

and easy girls,

fast highs

whatever the price.

I'm in love with them,

her bright blue eyes

and "Love" tattooed across his wrist.

Her determined gait,

and the way his fingers jitter.

I'm in love with them,

but she's and empty shell,

and he's forgotten how to love;

she just wants lust

and he can never sit still.

I'm in love with them,

but they don't love me.

I'm in love with them,

and their stories choke me.

In reply to He Puts Pen to Paper

But that never happened,

and it never will.

Because I don't love you,

I still refuse to.

Because for me to love you

I would need some things.

I would need to touch you,

I would need to touch your face.

I would need to kiss you,

I would need to know your taste.

I would need to know you,

both your mind and your physique.

I would need to need you,

and all I have is want.

I really want to need you,

but love you I cannot.

Pasamos Juntos

Amor,

pasamos juntos.

We walk together.

Yesterday, I went to the beach,

and left footprints in the sand.

Then, I walked back,

being careful to step in each one perfectly,

and walked again with bare feet,

so that I could pretend you were walking beside me

holding your shoes in your hand

and wearing that pretty yellow dress.

We walk together.

When I go to the store I buy

a pint of cookie dough

and eat it with two spoons,

one for you.

We walk together.

I drink wine on the porch,

white, your favorite.

Two glasses awaiting the sunset.

Amor,

pasamos juntos.

We walk together

Remember that when you feel alone.

Abigail

She looked beautiful, free, standing on the bench. The breeze tangled her brown curls and the sun burst into a smile on her face. The open plain was almost a challenge for her grace.

"When I was younger, I used to think that if I stood on a chair and thought hard enough I would fly away," she told me.

I smiled, watching her from her blanket in the long grass. It was warm out, and she had on a white polka-dotted red dress. I had on a yellow and white button down. We were on a picnic.

The bench was part of a table, one of those stereotypical wooden ones. It looked odd there, in the field, with nothing but grass for miles in any direction. I asked her how she knew about this place.

"I used to come here sometimes. When I got older I stopped thinking I could fly, but I still liked the idea of it, and I love the wind in my face. So, I would come here, on summer days like this, and fly my kite and think about what it's like to be up so high."

She turned to face me then, and I caught my breath in the silhouette of her head. I waved her over, and held her hand.

***

I still think we can fly, but I don't want to be the kite. They fly high, but they are always one string away from being free. I want to soar unfettered, unchained, emancipated. Come soar with me?

He Puts Pen To Paper

Resolved: That the consumption of alcohol by minors leads to inappropriate actions.

Contingent 1:

Last night.

I went over to his place, where the drinks were already made.

He was waiting for me.

I believe vodka has an adverse taste.

Contingent 2:

We took a shot of what could have been nail polish remover-

I hear they're practically the same-

and chased it with more of the same.

Production was sidelined for video games.

Contingent 3:

After orange juice and pink lemonade,

I certainly was open to anything.

Meaning, I believe I professed my love to him.

But! there are things to be said to the contrary.

1:

The drinks, though bad,

gave openness to our conversation.

2:

For a holiday, what could be more productive,

more American, than to drink and play?

3:

At least now he knows I love him,

and that is certainly something.

And although I drink to get drunk.

And although I hate the taste.

And although they had more fun,

in the spray of a sprinkler chase.

There is something worthwhile in being close.

There is something of note to note.

That although we make some mistakes,

acknowledging our loves was not one last night.

Do not let them know your thought.

Do not let them know your thought.

If in the dark their whispers ask,

then hide, hide fully your heart.

When we were lovers we dearly sought

to stay abstained of their repressive caste.

Do not let them know your thought.

Naked in your arms they caught

me and reprimanded me too fast.

So hide, hide fully your heart.

Men to women we are taught;

Class to class to make the system last.

Do not let them know your thought.

And others before us have bravely fought,

but lost to hatred, fear, and darkness.

So hide, hide fully your heart.

But for you I broadcast:

Fuck society and its masks.

Then, Lover, let them know your thoughts,

and never, never hide your heart.

Kim

brown hair

on a ballerina body

her curves make me want

to dance a pas with her breasts

and partner her thighs with my hands.

Her perfectly sculpted feet are designed

to lead my eyes up to her calves,

and then thighs, stomach, breasts,

the length of her neck, her smile,

and those brilliant bright eyes.

She doesn't know I want her,

and she shouldn't,

but, oh God, do I want it.

Stinson Beach (working title)

I’m on my way to Nick’s with Maggi. The sun is out after a few days of rain, so I let her off the leash. She darts in and out of the water with the waves, despite the fifty degree weather. You would think that Stinson Beach would provide some nicer weather for February, but California gets cold too. I like to see Maggi run free. There’s something noble about the way her shadow stretches in the purples of a dusk sun. She is a rescue puppy, Maggi, from the shelter just off of Shoreline and Del Piños. I wouldn’t have even seen her if not for Nick. Puma was getting old and he wanted a new cat in the house, so he made me go to the shelter with him. Maggi was a tiny mix of black lab and shepherd that whimpered as soon as I walked in the door. I didn’t think I could afford a dog then, but I couldn’t ignore her.

Nick invited me to dinner to celebrate Ground Hog’s Day. We grew up together, Nick and I. We didn’t have much money back in those days, so it doesn’t surprise me that Nick spends his as freely as he does now. I think tonight he just wanted me to get to know Pam. They had been dating for a while now, but I’d only met her once before at Zio’s. She ordered pepperoni but picked off the ones that weren’t whole. She was cooking for us tonight. She said it would be a pasta dish, but she would make sure to include some meat for Maggi. I stop by the stairs to wait for Maggi, and as she shakes off the water I put on my shoes.

Nick opens the door before I can knock. His house has a wall made completely of glass so that he can watch the sunsets. I guess he saw me walking up the stairs. Maggi pounces on him before I have the chance to hold her back, but Nick likes the attention. When she’s done, I get to give him a hug.

“Roger’s here,” Nick calls out to Pam. She walks out of the kitchen in a skinny black dress that draws attention to her dancer’s calves. Over it is a tickle-me-pink apron with oven mitts tucked into the front pocket.

“Hello, Roger. I’m glad you could make it.” She’s interrupted by Maggi’s eager calls for food. I laugh a thanks while I move past her to grab Maggi a treat. From the kitchen I can hear Pam talking to Nick as I grab the Beggin treats from the cabinet above the fridge.

“Roger, I forgot to pick up some oregano from the market earlier. I’m going to run and get some, but I trust you can keep Nicholas in line.”

“You bet, Pam.”

The door shuts and Nick leads the way back into the den. He grabs a beer from the mini-fridge there and throws me a crème soda. I’ve never been one for alcohol. I ask Nick if there’s a bowl I can use for Maggi while he searches through his floor to ceiling album rack. He loves technology, but Nick has always had a soft spot for vinyl records.

“Yeah, the one you used last week is still by the back door.”

By the time I get back he has The Black Keys jeopardizing the cleanliness of his wood floors with the way the sound is rattling his Sam Adam’s. I smile at him and he winks back.

“I’ve got an idea.”

“Aw c’mon, Nick. You can’t have anything mischievous planned yet.”

He smirks and runs out of the room. I can’t hear his footsteps because of the music, but I figure he’s gone to his room.

“You can still play, right?”

He hands me a battered black case, and I can tell he is serious.

“Yeah, I can still play Nick.”

“Well then, play!”

I pull out the saxophone and put it together while he takes his Fender off the wall.

“Just like the good ole days, hey Rog?”

The saxophone isn’t tuned and we’re both rusty, but we manage to play along to the bluesy tunes. It doesn’t seem like we have been playing for long when I notice a patrol car pull up in Nick’s driveway. Nick runs to the door and I turn off the stereo system. I hear the door open from the den.

“Evening, is this Nicholas Garrett’s residence?”

“Yes, I’m Nick.”

“We’ve received a complaint about the loud music. I’m going to have to ask you keep it down, alright sir?”

I hear Nick laugh and mumble a response. I’m not worried. Nick’s smile has gotten us out of worse situations in the past. I sit down on the brown suede couch and continue to drink my pop. Nick is giggling when he gets back into the room.

“Looks like we still have it, eh Rog.”

“Have what? The ability to be idiots or the charm to get out of trouble?”

He only laughed as he sat down next to me.

“Nick”

“Yeah, Rog”

“Why do you have that old picture still up?”

“The cowboy? It reminds me of home, ya know?”

“I thought you hated New York.”

“No, Rog. I hated being poor. I loved New York.”

“Then, why do we still live here?”

“California’s warmer. Besides, we wouldn’t want to move Maggi, would we?”

“Yeah…” my nervous chuckle earns me a concerned look.

“Roger, what’s bugging you?”

“Nick…Nicholas. Do you remember Vivian?”

“Of course, you two were perfect together.”

“Yeah, and Theresa?”

“Mmmhmm”

“Nick, I think I’m gay.”

“I know Rog.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, since Bridget’s party in 9^th grade.”

“Oh.”

The sound of Pam’s tires crunching gravel in the driveway filled the silence left in the wake of our reminiscent jam session.

“Nick, are we still friends?”

He didn’t answer, but he winked at me before he got up to grab another beer.

sex, church, love...more? an incomplete series

Her cheeks are Cardinal virtue in flame-like red,

but I don’t care for anything but her eyes,

liquid visages of the phantom of our grave.

I see a seed of it there

like a rhinestone’s cheap glimmer,

a 16^th note of our tongues and teeth,

clacking together.

I’m grounded in the mocha of her curves

like lightening to the earth.

Her fedora a buoy

in a pool of crested sheets.

Blue writing seeps into paper

to match the color of the couch

I sink into like heels

on softened earth.

The alto above me sings

to match the song of a macaw,

her melody a shade

of their vibrancy.

As her aria trickles

down to me,

I fade into rhythms

of snare drums

and a tap dancer’s feet.

The lights are

off in church.

We sit next

to white candles

by the priest,

behind the altar.

He says something

of the Word

that I don’t hear

because he is sitting

there, adjacent the gate.

I daydream of more

than his blue eyes.

An appropriate image

for Sunday Mass.

Service on an Autumn's Night

For Hannah

I told her I would write her poetry.

What was it she expected of me?

That night on the rooftop of

Mequita's roparia with the purple

haze of the Sears Tower beckoning

behind you, we gave into our

guttural laughter until our collapse gave

heed to the creaks in the asphalt shingles.

I told you I would write you poetry.

Adison

there he is sitting

there in the curve

of his school desk chair.

gray as the shade

of his AE sweater,

my hands want

to have all he has.

more, I want to feel

everything he is.

Dear Journal

If I meet you suddenly, I can't speak.

-Sappho

The sky is a lilac blanket.

Swathed in the mania of the day’s passing,

My foot flutters like the wings

Of a flustered hummingbird.

I do not notice his entering.

You’re fidgety interrupts

My thoughts. His gravelly voice

Compels my heart to beat

So intensely that I’m unsure

I remember how to breathe.

Has he seen?

Does he know what it is I’ve written?

I leave you this as my last post for a week. I'll be without phone/internet for the next week. I hope you like it. It is going to be the piece I submit for Shadows. <3 PM [they didn't like it. try again next semester?]

The linguistic queen of school bees

I don't quite grasp the nuance of it-

the bemusing buzzing of bees in the air,

the euphony of their translucent wings

mellifluously similar to her whisperings

I don't quite understand the meaning of their exotic movings-

the honeycomb of her hair as she delineates the day-

the day of a golden Fall

when I sing hallelujahs to this linguistic queen of school bees

don't wanna force destiny

don't wanna force it this action together what if I want you but you just walk away I've been hiding now I'm ready is it time? is this destiny? this is clearly evidence of the promise I made to myself to post every poem regardless of quality.

how many sets...

how many sets of lips have those lips kissed? how many sets of eyes have those eyes felt? how many sets of hands have those hands held? how many sets of every kind, and not one set of mine.

my exercise in creativity

my exercise in creativity is to live- to dream and hope- to... try and fail. my exercise in creativity is to be. Be with me?

when our two hearts closely pound

okay,

but I warn you I'm crazy

actually, I am

like one minute happy

the next minute sad

like one second there

and the next nowhere

cuz my life is a coaster

but I'll try to stall still

I'll try to stay solid

and hold to the ground

but I warn you I'm flying

and to me, the ground can't be found

and what if I tell you that

all that is only normal

that I cry alone in my darkened room

when my life is free of all possible gloom

and I run after midnight

because suddenly I'm blue

maybe, just maybe, I'm perfect for you

maybe, just maybe,

life wasn't meant to be normal

and crazy is true

maybe love's perfect

and it's the only ground around

sunlit wanderings

words come in vivacious play, the tinkerings of sunlit wanderings. my mind connects to yours in the center of sun's glowing dust- motes! with music notes! if this life wasn't a dance I wouldn't know where to go