i was staring out
at the brilliant
orange sunrise when
i realized i hadn’t
been kissed in a
very long time.
suddenly the dryness
across my lips
felt more potent.
time flies when
you’re depressed.
next thing you know
it’s 2018 and
you glance back
at the hole you’ve
been climbing out
of. you imagined
several feet but
it’s just a couple.
and then, like when
you remember you
have a thick,
muscley tongue
in your mouth,
i remembered the
press of soft lips
against my own,
the half-open mouth
and awkward angling
of two protruding
noses. the innocent
occasional clacking
of front teeth.
the laughter.
the moment in-between
when you lock eyes
and share each other.
i realized i
missed that.
i felt embarrased
by it, like i didn’t
deserve it. tried
to shake it off.
failed.
the sunrise is just sun now.
Category: poetry
-
003p: kissed
-
002p: broke lament
they say
“trust your gut”
and
“travel more”
and
“follow your heart”
these people
born from coffers
of money.
they say
“take risks”
from a trapeze
over a safety net,
each failure
a tumble
into waiting arms,
a brief respite
into a savings
account,
or a desperate
phone call
to a parent.
they get jobs
to see what
it’s like
to be people,
and quit as soon
as it’s hard.
they wonder why
you’re always broke.
no–
not they–
you
always wonder
why you’re broke.
& it’s because
you never had
money to begin with. -
garden bar 1.2.18
The year begins
With the ebb and flow
Of a headache.
I keep watching people from the bleachers
And glance away when they spot me spying.
A woman whose butt I admired
As she walked away has returned,
Seeking a seat in the same bleachers
I’m sitting at. (I couldn’t help it,
It was the jeans. It’s always the jeans.)
Every woman is wearing riding boots,
Well dressed equestrianesses.
Some guy looks like my friend Ryan King
If he had a Hitler mustache.
I should make sure it’s not him. -
001p: i went for a run this morning.
i went for a run this morning.
the cold air bit at my fingers
like windy piranhas, my breath
labored like 19th century coal miners.
a lot of it was walked.
watched the artificial time
switch to midnight, the first morning
of the new year, then promptly
went to sleep. no alcohol,
no friends, no parties.
a classic end to a baseline year.
this morning, a run.there is a hidden well where
my resolve resides, a secret cavern
in my own body. i search for it
every two weeks with my therapist,
but it is elusive. it rests and feeds
in fits and spurts. but it’s there.
it’s somewhere. and it finds me.
and it wrests lethargy and sloth from me,
and into my bloodstream it injects
a force of movement
that circulates for a few days
before subsiding.
that’s why i need to find it, so
i can squeeze the life out of it
and into me, forever, and feel better,
forever. but that’s not how life works.
i went for a run this morning. -
garden bar 12.19.17
Salad with chopsticks,
Your Greco-Roman hairdo,
A Caesar eating caesar
With Chinese silverware.
Some thoughtful person
Blares Shania Twain
On the Garden Bar speakers.
Their holiday tree is
The most non-denominational
Thing ever witnessed. -
garden bar 11.8.17
Shuffleboard bros,
You take this game
Too seriously.
Stacked pucks
And windbreakers,
Inevitable bar fables
About the women
You’ve “taken.”
A fireside chat
About your golf game.
I am envious
Of your simplicity.12 -
garden bar 10.27.17
Aimless child
In evil olive chair
Swivels about
As bored
As the sky
Is blue. -
garden bar 10.4 good buddy
Man in handkerchief shirt.
The pattern foils TV screens.
Your jeans, too long,
Must be rolled up,
For fashion?
Your shoes are the least-
Looking shoes I’ve ever seen.
I thought they were socks
Like athletic socks
Like you are “too cool”
For indoor shoes,
You zen-fueled guy–
But no, they are shoes
Like if a medieval peasant
Made a pair of Reeboks.
Rébocke: a Gentle Man’s shue.
You have the face
That every man from Ohio
Or Iowa
Or one of those Midwestern states has,
Resplendent with short ginger hair
And portly face.
The face of a European king.Woman in mustard top.
Women alone always seem
More lonely than men,
Their social nature
Seemingly stripped,
Earbuds nestled in their ears,
The latest true crime podcast
Softly wafting into their ear canal.
From her perspective,
A pleasant respite from
Constant attention.
She vigorously shakes a
Plastic tub of salad.
Does she laugh while eating it?
I can’t tell, she sat away from me. -
pettygrove park, 9.28.17
He smokes on a park bench
By the stone garbage can,
Scrolling mindlessly
On his phone.
Probably reading sports things.
He looks like a guy
Who reads sports things
On his phone during his lunch break,
And knows stats on all the players,
Which he memorized in his “man cave.”
The bald spot on his head
Looks like he wore a
Yarmulke too long,
And the hair underneath
Withered away.
It’s perfectly circular. -
pettygrove park, 9.27.17
Man in suit
standing amid park trees,
between the two hill mounds,
on the concrete
where the Aztecs danced
for the white people.
Gray suit, nice suit,
tailored and trimmed,
blue shirt, no tie.
Standing stylishly in the center,
on hold, his phone to his ear.
Standing stylishly because
he is in the center
and someone nice
might walk by and look at him.
Left hand in pocket,
black eyeglasses, short spiked hair.
Broad shouldered
or just nice shoulder pads
in his gray suit.
He left, unable to reach his party.