#85

c. July 2015(?)

"and when we say your name our tongues catch flame..."

i could inscribe
144,000 rambling
love psalms devoted
to you, piously filled
with divine references
to your pedestal'd being and
never say enough...


"...and you wonder why we ain't got nothin' to say"

...because you're not a myth
you're a fucking
coolsmartfunnysexy
strongthoughtfulartisticweird
gorgeousgoofyfascinating
angryrighteousadmirable
passionateinsightfulendearing
empatheticsweetcutetalented
crazyandbeautifullyfuckedup
person
  (instilled with limitless potential for awesomeness)
and that's why i love you

y'know,
that and
everything else
forever


Friday, August 19, 2016

In Brautigan Salt

LUNCH

It was time for lunch. I walked from work across the road, past the Playground, past the open fields of concrete, up the small steps with no handrail, past the Trinket Closet with the doors that no longer closed, maybe they never had, no one knows, noting the purposeless metal objects inside, and into the Cafeteria Hallway. There were two booths on either side of the new sandwich shop, one sandwichmaker at each, loudly hawking the free sandwiches piled on the booths to divert business from the old sandwich shop, to maximize their profits, the way they've done for as long as I can remember. I don't know why, no one does - the old sandwich shop has been closed since before the new sandwich shop opened, and we don't pay for things here anyway. That's just how it is. The second sandwichmaker forced a sandwich into my hands, all sliced meats and cheeses and vegetables and bread. As I ate and walked the length of the Cafeteria Hallway past the shuttered storefronts, the sandwichmakers' cries echoing off the concrete of the Hallway and dying slowly in the air, I wondered what the contents of my sandwich were and realized, as I do every day, that I didn't know. It didn't matter because I couldn't taste it anyway, none of us can, we just eat. That's just how it is. I crossed the threshold at the opposite end of the Cafeteria Hallway and stood on the concrete platform, looking out at the open fields of concrete that stretch further than the eye can see, further than anyone knows, and finished the sandwich, turned and walked back the length of the Cafeteria Hallway. I took another sandwich from the first booth because it was a simple sandwich of my favorite meats and cheeses, and the sandwichmaker ceased his hawking and began to follow, scolding me for having taken another sandwich. I pretended I couldn't hear even though he was right behind me, close enough to take the sandwich back himself, and eventually he gave up and returned to his booth and began yelling again as though nothing had happened. I took a bite of the sandwich and all the fillings fell out of the back, so I stopped by the Trinket Closet and threw the rest of my sandwich over the side of the small steps with no handrail. I noticed a tiny, old book inside the Trinket Closet, greyed with age and warped from the rain with a faded photograph of an old, bespectacled man glued to the cover, blankly staring out and just over my shoulder into the emptiness above the open fields of concrete. I opened it and read some poems the bespectacled old man had written about his life, but couldn't understand what any of them meant, and closed the book once I reached the blank pages halfway through. I walked down a few small steps with no handrail, then opened the book again and read the poems that had appeared on some of the blank pages, but didn't understand those either. Books write themselves here, and while I don't like this, I don't blame them. That's just what they do. I slid the book in my back pocket and finished descending the small steps with no handrail.


TYRUS & THE PLAYGROUND

I passed the Playground on my way back to work, and Tyrus and his gang called out their harrassments to me. I don't like this, but I don't blame them. That's just what they do. Tyrus came up and grabbed me and put me in one of his holds, then forced me down under one of the cramped parts of the Playground, whispering in my ear so softly that I couldn't make out what he was saying. His hold changed and he pressed himself into me, wrapped his limbs and himself around me so tightly that I wasn't sure where his body ended and mine began, continuing to whisper nothings at the side of my head, and held me there for seconds and eons. I don't like this, but I don't blame him. That's just what he does. Finally I told him I had to get back to work and he let me up without hesitation and I went on my way, his gang calling their harrassments until long after I was out of earshot. I walked back to work and blinked and was in my room at home.


HOME

I stood naked in my room and grabbed a sheet and walked out the front door and down the street through the neighborhood with the sheet wrapped around my lower half, flapping in the wind and exposing my genitals to anyone who cared to pass by. There is no music here, but sometimes I hear long-forgotten strains of it in my head. We all do but no one knows why. That's just how it is.


CIGARETTE

I decided I wanted a cigarette, so I walked out of work and sat on the bench on the edge of one of the open fields of concrete. I pulled a packet of tobacco and a smaller packet of papers out of my left pocket, followed by a lighter. I opened the smaller packet and removed a single paper then opened the larger one and withdrew two fingers worth of dry tobacco, some of it already crumbling to dust. All the tobacco here is dry. I don't like this, but I don't blame it. That's just how it is. I sprinkled the tobacco over the paper, leaving more in one end than the other, then rolled it into a slightly conical shape before twisting one end. Some of the tobacco landed on my pant leg - this always happens no matter how skilled I seem to get. I don't like this, but I don't blame myself. That's just how it is. I placed the twisted end between my front teeth and bit down to sever it from the rest of the cone, spit the twisted tip into the open field of concrete, flipped the cigarette with one hand which I then cupped around the now-open fatter end of the cone. I did this even though there was no wind - there never is - then lit the cigarette. I inhaled the smoke, noting the slight taste of cinnamon that sometimes accompanies it, then exhaled the smoke through my teeth. I watched the thick white cloud mix with the thin stream that sprung from the end of the cigarette, my breath pushing the two sources made one out over the open field of concrete. I watched the smoke drift outwards and upwards, squinting my eyes toward the end of its journey until the onesmoke became a part of the grey sky, being no longer smoke but part of the vastness above the open field of concrete. I repeated this ritual of inhaling, exhaling, watching, squinting, until my fingers burned with the paper and tobacco, then deposited what remained of the small end of the cone beneath the bench. I did this daily, sometimes as many as five or six times in a day, but the small ends never accumulated. This was true everywhere, of everything. No one knew why. That's just how it is. Apart from a small dizziness at the crown of my skull, I felt the same as I did before the cigarette.


Sunday, August 21, 2016

Sunday Morning Ritual

I run an ice cube
under eyes swollen from
12-hours of sleep
  so I can see enough to finish this
  Richard Brautigan novel
  before it's overdue
then drop it in my coffee cup because
the coffee is always
too hot


October 27, 2016

cold October morning
on the precipice of the Hallowed day
the hallowed season
  (which I,
  unhallowed in belief,
  direction, purpose,
  despise yet must suffer
  through)
Dostoyevsky's Notes in one hand
rolled tobacco in the other
mind sharpened by chill air
unwarmed by the rising sun
striving to make sense of...
of what, I'm not even sure

questions lead to questions lead
to questions in infinite regress

is this the natural state of things?
if so, then... what?

and so I write and make no progress
the same as when I gave in
to the inertia that has plagued me
these last few days

and still I write

is it the mere act of doing that matters?
setting aside the lack of a stated end -
would I be satisfied with the end, anyway?
perhaps the doing is all there is
whether chaotic or structured
perhaps there is only the doing


Thursday, December 8, 2016

Sappier Than Maple Syurp

To miss you is wonderful
  (even if it aches a little)
Because it means I'm alive
And capable of caring
About someone else
  (even if it's selfish a little)
And that's good to know
Because I wasn't sure if I could
For a long time

Besides
It's offset by your missing me
And the stories I get to hear
And how fucking proud I am of you
And the anticipation of seeing you again
  (even hearing your voice a little)
And the incredible gratitude I feel
When I think about the fact
That we get to be best friends
     (even if we had to work a little)