Category: lunchtime poems

Cushions velcroed to the wooden bleachers.
Close-cropped curly haired man gives no shit,
He wrenches that cushion from its home
Like an ICE officer, plopping himself down as if
He owns the goddamn place.

You watch the rain and wind
Make spotty waves against the concrete.
The sky is resolved to sunder.
Trapped in dark thoughts
Your momentum a broad stalemate
Between self and self.
Above, the gray thunders,
An aching crease in the heavens.
Portents are all your own,
You choose to see what you see in tea leaves,
Just as you make the words
On a Ouija board.

Commisserating over sunburns.
He keeps his socks on;
Thus, a stark contrast
Between his feet and his legs.
She laughs:
“You’re cute but that’s gross.”
On “cute” I know it’s on.
And like a viper he strikes,
I hear the rustle of clothing
Against the wood bench
As he sidles closer.
“Can I ask you something?”
In a voice above a whisper,
Then whispers,
Then the silence
Of a first kiss(es).
I’m reading Ursula Le Guin.
They pull away and continue talking,
And I listen for his interest in that.

Rest your head
Against my shoulder.
Rushing water was
The first tv static,
This I say a propos
Of nothing.
Kiss me with your pasta breath,
Laugh a little less
Each time we clack
Our teeth together.
When you ask me
What’s wrong
I am a boar
Hunting for truffles.

Where did you go
And why
And how
Did it get to that point?
When will we see you
Alive
Is that it?
Did you fight with yourself
In the darkness?

“All black everything”
She mouthed to herself
In the mirror this morning.
She eats a single slice
Of salami from
A plastic Ziploc bag.
(Or at least that’s
What it looks like
From my periphery.)
She in short hair
Hunched over her phone,
Laughing at things
But not too loud
To draw attention.
The salad zone
Blasts Bohemian Rhapsody.
It’s quiet, everyone
Drinks the diet version
Of things. I’m thinking
About the carrots
I didn’t eat for lunch.
Outside,
The clouds roll in.

You remember
Right?
Everything fades.
All memory
Rests on the precipice.
She walks with purpose–
She reads Ghost World–
She eats a salad.
This will be nothing
In 1,000 years.
This will not exist.
Your brain is loose
With information.
She wears Christmas colors.
Your life as long
As an atom’s mass
To a black hole.
She turns the pages–
She ignores everyone.
When we are gone
Instead of monuments
There will be bones
In the dirt.

It’s warm out
So I’m outside again,
A ghost of translucent skin
And awkward-angled sunburns,
Draped in cheap Target cloth.
A single man in cyan
Sits on a sun-drenched hill
Staring into a bright rectangle.
I write about him
In a similar rectangle.
I do my best to not ogle
The women in sundresses
But let’s face it:
The world is blooming now
And there’s much more
To look at.

I, and maybe you,
Pull clods of earth asunder
As we haul ourselves
From the sunken winter,
Shaking our lumbering frames,
Inhaling the soft scent
Of flowers. We smell love,
And feel the warm breeze
Against our cheeks.
We’ve won our annual
Fight against the seasons.
We’ve won once again.

it’s such bullshit that
you make me feel better than
a bunch of cookies

i’m sick of living on 174th
sick of feeling in the shadow
of those i should be kin to.
sick of wasting years
locked in depression
and anxiety. i long
to grasp the clouds with
warm fingers and palms
stretched. they say that
tall men die sooner than
short men. my life expectancy
is 64. 30 years left. 30 years
to find something to
hold onto and someone
to hold onto it with.
i’m sick of hating the
brunt of my day. sick of
hating myself. tired of
finding meaning.
i make the meaning.
i make it now.
i foster it and i coddle it
and i whisper things to it
that i would never say
out loud. i am encrusted
in depression, and breaking
through requires immense
pain and pushing.
i will push. i will pain.
i will watch the sunrise
for leisure instead of
from a MAX train to work.