“You’re kidding me” and “no, thanks,” are
her most favorite words, easily. Tom had
informed me prior to the get-together that she
was a killer at yoga; an absolute beast, he phrased
it, about. So she wore jeans and vest
that had to be nineties made, and it was hard to
avoid a glance at those toned, tan arms crossed,
attached to a hand attached to a drink. Her smile
is like a spring sky, with impossible blue clouds and
a variety of song birds about the trees. It makes me spit
my drink nearly, just conversing with her, and
and again my eye line hits some angelic
angle: like on a titled-head laugh, or a superior wink,
or brief grin and brush of my arm with her hand.
shivers and slightly slitted lips, this meet up
has got me all mixed. mega waves hit me when she
grabbed my wrist, twisted my eyes into hers and said
“I have a storage unit I need to unpack; will you help me?”
Eight hours between two beds
& this is where it falls apart.
I’ve never felt more rested though.
Not everyone has a light behind
them. Not everyone is lovely. There
are shambles and people who live in
them & become shambles
themselves. These are the destitute
in spirit, the lost from love & drive.
They exist, in the countless, by the scores.
A suburb is a collection of shambles.
The projects are neglected monuments
for those keeping track. Don’t ask what
for, I did not build them.
“…heading out to the property” oh! the property.
Who’s properly partying with you on your goddamn property?
Wife, kids, a nice dog. Keep up
the path and in less than a decade you too can fuck
a young, buoyant intern on “the property.”
I feel like I’m the only one on this world who thinks it’s macabre
to get married on a plantation. “People do it all the time.”
What? Would you get married on a murder site? In a gas chamber?
What if outside it were pretty? Would you get married where
people were raped? What if it happened 200 years ago?
What if the ghosts were quiet? I guess ghosts are quiet here.
I want to get married in a graveyard full of confederate corpses,
& we can dance on their graves to ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,’
& then we can try to conceive something in a copse of thin trees
near a headstone,
& I’ll ask you if you know about the Allen curve, & you’ll just grin,
& you’ll pull back on your wedding skirt & adjust it,
& the spacecraft will appear in a moonless, starless sky and beam us up
shakey graves followed dr. dog in that two
set night at the outdoor stubbs stage.
I found you,
well, I can’t remember when. sometime
in between sets, and you looked terrified
at my detective skills. I went for the hug,
and accepting it your eyes shot wide
and stayed that way till I parted, stumbling,
off to grab cheap beer for a notsocheap price.
music magic that night. man, I imagined you
on the shoulders of that business major
during ‘dearly departed.’ dude was tall.
I had only spotted as far as his shoulders & neck,
and I can bet, yes, his face was the best
tall & white has to offer these days. a real
golden boy, I’d wager. hey, whatever fills
your boat, as long as the little man is happy
I’ll bet you’re all grins.
Pints before two & I’m smitten. She likens
maybe running pants & boots;
they don’t seem a match,
maybe we are though.
It’s a crap shoot. It’s crap,
In all probability I’m a
No one shows interest in you
if you’re not interested in yourself.
You: case in point, tap away at a keyboard
already bored with me.
I read Frost’s ‘Fire & Ice’ in my head. It’s on a loop.
It’s a mantra.
Hopefully no one can catch on to what I’m catching on to. The faces,
& the jeans & dresses,
short shorts, & boyfriend
Eye-contact is the most fun. I try & have the blue pop
I woke up from a sketch
& there were women everywhere.
There’s no helping it, I stare.
It’s important not to linger, on well, really anywhere.
High-waisted things are in. This accents certain curves,
muscles I suppose. Hey, no complaints from me, the eternal
voyeur, abusing the hell out of my periphery.
Chalked in white on some obvious blackboard,
nudes reclining. They were sketched squiggly,
as though hurried, but the genitalia were all there.
Dicks dangling, tits pushed squarely up against
a square, he guessed. Maybe it was supposed to have
been an ottoman. It only contained two dimensions,
They rambled and danced on the chalkboard, and around
them were the remnants of the pre-lunch series of notes.
Mr. Simic sighed along with the class bell. What would
it take for him to lock the door after fourth period?
If he knew, he wouldn’t be sweating in a scramble to clear
the student prank. If he could remember to lock the door,
he could remember to zip up his zipper more often; he could
recall his estranged brother’s birthday; maybe he could
stop misplacing his brand new iPhone.
Sure, she might have been born with mirror
neurons fucked; this could explain the indifference
in minor human actions that make other girls swoon:
a curl of dark hair with a strong finger, the cool lean,
a gaze with an asymmetric smirk attached.
But maybe she got nurtured into not caring. No one
gave two of anything about her, ‘so, fuck it,’ she doesn’t
care now either. Does this explain the cleaver
(used mostly for animal meat) instead seen here
embedded in an ex-lover’s skull? It could.
Things would have had to have gotten drastic at an early
age. No one can really say. Maybe she just got one
too many black eyes, and picking up the blade was
easier than packing the suitcase, filling up the sedan.