ao-oa: volume one

for Sam

rest in peace

the poems herein were entirely writtenand released by ao-oa, and

can also be found at:

ao-oa.tumblr.com

all works protected under the Creative Commons License.

contents:

heart

&

hands

heart

haunting

I didn’t believe inghosts, or devilsuntil I lost youbut continued tofeel you.

1

coffee

you are likea fresh cupof warm coffee,first thingin the morning.

I am tired;weary with the burdenof long-closed eyesand slumber, andthe prior day’s exhaustion.

but if my daybegins with youI know no taskcan challenge me.

2

fall

sheshed her glory, like a treein Fall,clothes strewn across my floor -- dead leaves on the lawn --

and I couldn’t help butwonder, asI looked upon hertwisted roots andtangled branches,how many othershad seen her this way,or sought shelterin her shade,or eventriedto climb.

3

sleeping

sleeping isan interesting thing,in that it becomes anentirely different eventwhen done with someoneyou love.

alone, it is a routine,a mindless necessity,like using the bathroom, orstarting your car.

you lay there and try to getcomfortable, and drift off,and eventually, you wake up andcontinue on with your life.

but with a lover, it all isreversed.daily life becomes this void,this dull, disappointing filler betweenthe hours in whichyou can lay together again,curled up insilent serenity.

4

you take a slow,deep breath, and gazeupon your lover’s eyelids,trying to imagine everythingthat could be happeningbehind them,until you part waysand reunite in a dream.

5

passenger

sometimes, when I’mdriving into the city,a shadow willslide across theempty passenger seat andcatch the corner of my eye,and when I look,I swear I canstill see you there,at my side;

your glowing face, smilingback at me,warming every inch of my soul;your sunkissed hair andfreckled cheeks, justbegging me to lean overand kiss you;your fragile voice echoing,resonating through me.

my heartbeat rises,my body livens, and Ireach eagerly totake your hand, but mine justfallsupon the seat

6

and your silhouette fades away,and I turn my gaze backto the road ahead.

7

the girl at the light

I pulled up next tothe love of my lifeat a red light today.

she was gorgeous, andjoyous, as she sangwith the music that wasfilling her car.

the light turned green,she pressed on the gas,and my love was gonefor a few hundred feet --until we met again, atthe next light.

I fell harder the second time --there was something soadorableabout the way her mouthcurled around that song,and how her hair swayedas she bobbed in rhythm.the light turned green again.

8

we met once more.this time, she noticed me,and smiled.green.

our lanes merged, and wedrove together for a bit,until I turned to go to work,and she continued forward,no doubt heading home, to abetter man than me.

9

this time of year

this season always hits hard --it was around thistime of year,with the leaves all falling,and then, the snow,that I fell into you,the chill in the airwrapping me inlayers of your love.

I engulfed myself in you,to escape the weather’s scorn,but you soon proved to beno less cold.

10

maps

though our maps all burnedalong with our bridges,I could still so easilychart a path to your door,and navigate your bones,and the route to your heart.

I could effortlessly treadour road againwith my eyes closed tight;

but when I’d arrive,I know that I wouldn’tever be able tounlock you.

11

(untitled)

trees sway in foreign breezes,across plains and beyond seas.the night falls elsewhere,as our morning is born,and unknown tongues whisperwords of life and death.birds soar and sing amongst the clouds;mountains think on valleys’ depths,as do valleys, the ocean floor.

for certain, this world is immense,but oh, how miniscule it may be in my contentment;a small room and a bed,and you at my side.

the trees may burnand this earth may leveland this night may never pass,but in your eyes lives a homelike universe,ever more vast.

12

the strangers

vacant homes, andbusy hotels;worn-in bedsand worn-out hearts.bones which know no haven,and bedsheets, madefor lying.

the sunpeeks in, towake new lovers;strangers, but for whatthey share;warmth of skin and breath,and thecoldness of the heart.

13

what I know about faith

I saw youat yourlowest point;your miserable,wallowing worst,pitiful and dirty,sorrowful and shamed

and Istilllove(d)you.

14

record

your memory is likemy favorite old record;I play it often,with a supreme fondnessand a sliver of hope,that I may be able torecapture the loveI felt when I firstexperienced it;

but each time I play it back,it wears and ages and fades,until itno longer sings to me.

so I put another recordon the turntable,but oh, it just isn’t the same.

it’s not the same.

15

dreams

you came to meagain, in my sleep,occupying my dreamsso innocently.

my mind is notso ambitious, to writestories of loveand stories of life;but simpler tales,of our bodies, entwined,of kissing your noseand holding you tight,and though I still wakewithout you in sight,at least the dreamscarry me through the night.

16

haunted house

your body is ahaunted house,built on burial grounds.the halls -- your skin and muscle and bone --ensnare countless ghosts,trapped and damned,for debtsunpaid,and deathsthat came too soon.

17

3am

right now, in the Tanzanian city ofDar es Salaam, business men aredressing for the day, andkissing their wives goodbye;the night crew of theconstruction teamat workis just beginningtheir day’s agenda;restless kids are somewherearranging their things for school;my neighbors are quietly crawlinginto bed next to each other -- she has no idea he’s married, with children.

I am seated alone,in a dimly lit condo,eating a late dinner, andwriting about a girlwhom I should have stopped loving long ago.

18

bedroom business

I counted all your frecklesand offeredthree kisses for each,while youquantified your sorrows,and buried mebeneath.

19

martyrdom

despite my love,I am no martyr;don’t make me out to be.

I won’t sacrifice myself for anyonewho can’t do the same for me.

20

“don’t turn on the light”

it was 2:30 inthe morning, and there wasvomit on the ground,and the doorwas wide open, soI let myself in --nobody would besober enough to noticeanother guest, anyway.

there were kids sleepingon the kitchen floor,next to a shattered vase,and I followed the noiseto the living room.it was dark, and as I stepped inside, I heardclothes rustling, anda boy breathing heavily, and thena familiar voice - your voice.

“don’t turn on the light.”

I only wishthat I hadlistened.

21

flirting

I am sorry;I was never good withthis sort of thing --if you catch me staring, from acrossthe room, and Ijerk my gaze away --if I smile awkwardly, or not at all --if I bit the skin on mylip, and refuse to makeeye contact, staring insteadat the distance, or the floor --if I seem to ignore you,that’s how you’ll know.

I know it seems rude, butyou’re much too beautiful,and I was never goodwith this sort of thing.

22

(untitled)

for all the hearts you’ve claimed,it’s a shame you’ve never foundone of your own.

23

two days

I cannot recallyesterday’s meals,or the dayI learned to drive,or the name of my 7th grade teacher;the events of my first date, or thechildhood camping tripswith my father,or the night I first let my sadnesstake control.

but two days blossom in my memory,more vivid than this moment, and morevital than a breath of air;

the first --when I knew I’d foundlove, with you --the other,when you knew youhadn’t.

24

(untitled)

vying for temporary salvation,chasing ways to waste away;making lovers of minutesand martyrs of days.

poison present pleasuresleave little room for growth.

25

one-night stand

I must have been lonely,because I drovetwo hoursacross the stateto meet a girl I’d only knownfor a few weeks.we met on the internet (terrible invention, that)and spoke every dayand suddenly I wasat her doorstep.

we curled up together andkissed, and talked,and sang along with herrecord collection -- “you know, this album is supposed to be about Anne Frank?”

and then we made love --or, she did.

26

and then I drove home.I can’t for the life of meremember the nameof her town,or of her father, whowaved goodbye,saying “see you soon”as I backed out of thedriveway.

27

romance

she won my heartand my bodythe very first night we spenttogether.

in the morning, when Ireturned home,I found a note she’d hidden inmy wallet --a cute little sentiment thatmade me sick to my stomachin the best waypossible.

I was a foolto buy into that.

romance is dead,and the whores all use it topull the wool overthe eyes of men like me.

28

demons

my demons,though quiet,are never quite silenced.

calm as they may be,they wait patientlyfor a reason to wake,take an overdue breath,and crawl back to my ear.

29

on life and death

I remember the first time Isaw your face,glowing in the doorway;it was like being reborn,like all my life was amap to that moment.I stared into your smile,and I knew that I could love you,and my gut was swirlingand my heart was warm.

I remember the last day wespent together,when you were mine,your eyes shut, dreamingamongst my bedsheets.I watched you sleeping for a while --my eyes had never known suchbeauty, and my gut was still swirling,and my heart was still warm.

30

I remember the last time Isaw your face;walking shoulder-to-shoulder withhe who replaced me,hand-in-hand,his heart in yours.I stared into your smile, anda weight dropped in me,and my gut was swirling,but my heart felt cold

31

hope

everyone speaks of hope likea collectible,like something you mightpurchase at the grocery store,or rent from the neighbor, orborrow from a friend for a while,and you hold onto it until you’veused it up, or its gone stale,and then you just have to findanother source.

I think it’s much more ofsomething you’re born with,resting below your fingernails,and it’s always there, butsometimes we clip ournails too short, or gotoo long without tending to them,and our hope gets distorted, andfades from sightand from feeling.

32

it is still there, though, andas soon as you outstretch your arms tograsp your dreams, you’llsee it again,at the ends of your fingers,and it will bring you the ease totighten your grip.

33

(untitled)

for a momemt there,I saw an ounce of promise in you,but you weren’t strong enoughto follow through on that.

I just hope, for your sake,that you one day find it again;that you manage to brush awaythe rubble in your headand find a wayto love, and be loved.

it’s something you’ve been without for far too long.

34

sonder

I fall in love regularly,with each person whompasses me in the streets,or who sits beside me on the bus.

not in the romantic way;no, we hardly even speaka word to each other;but I sit, quietly observingall of their body language, and all oftheir expressions.

their smiles, and gestures;the way they lift their coffee,or smile as they readthat new text message,or count the change in their hands.

I watch vigilantly, trackingthe manners and movements,and appreciating all thatthese people are.

I spend some time thinkingabout their families and friends,and the lives they lead.

35

I consider what they might dofor work, and what theywent to school for.when they woke up that morning, andhow they did their hair.

I study the details of these peoplethat may otherwise go unnoticed,researching each of them,noting our similarities, andrejoicing inthe beauty of human nature.

36

to guard a sorrow

your sadness is hidden,buried below layers of soot and shallow words,stitched tightly into the fibers of your mind.

I wove myself into your skin just long enoughto see what lies beneath,and I think that frightened you.

37

seasons

sorrow is as seasons,like the summer, brings the sun,and the light shines down and almostmakes you forget about the coldof the winter, which will surelyreturn before you know,always more harshthan you remember, from years prior.

and so it goes --but wait, the warmthwill always prevail;the ice willturn to water soon,and wash away,and some day, you may evenlearn toappreciate it --after all, what else would sunlighthave to melt?

38

panes

I woke late in the afternoonand listened,in the dark of my room,as the raindropskissed the windowwith the sameunwavering faithas my lipsheld for yours.

39

indulgence

I want your legs draped over my shoulders, your voice, breath-filled and coy; your hands pulling me in closer, your body writhing with joy;

my face buried deep between your thighs, holding me in place; my nostrils filled with your sweet scent, my tongue, dancing with your taste.

40

overgrowth

I loved herwith my soul, andshe loved mewith her limbs,and I guess I didn’tmind,for a while,because Icouldn’t tell the difference,until I saw thosecareless limbswrapped and grown aroundthe soul ofanother.

41

learning

long before graduating, I hadgiven up on school;nothing in those textbooks couldcompare to life experience.

after leaving the classroom,my only plans were towalk around the country,traveling to different cities, andmeeting as many people as possible --seeing the world.

but then, I met you, andsettled into this town,and while I haven’t stood on distant soils,I think I sawgreater sights, and learnedmore about life and lovein your bedroom thanI ever could havein New York or L.A.

42

a haiku

walking with crutcheswon’t allow your bones to grow

strong in pressure’s weight.

43

early mournings

2 am,sitting aloneat the coffee-table,in the dark,writing andaching for you,while you areasleepin your own bed,far from here,dreaming ofsomeone else.

44

plans

a friend and I stoodat work, talking, and he asked me, “do you love her yet?

and I thought about ourplans; our apartment inthe city, andour pets,and our friends,and our schools,and our jobs, andyour savings,and mine,and the way you hadwanted me topropose;

but I didn’t want toexplain all that, or realizehow silly it was,so I justsighedand shruggedand continued working.

45

second-chancing

she sat next to me,writhing in her skin and tugging atthe door handle;she probably would have been cryingif she had any tears left --they were all gatheredat the back of her throat,and they bubbled and popped as shescreamed and begged meto let her jump out of the carand end her life (and maybe I should have).

I brought her home,dropped her off my shoulderonto the bed, andtook a moment to look at her.she was miserable, dirty,disgraceful.her revealing sleep clothes showeda side of her I’d never seen.we argued into the morning,makeup running down her face injet black rivers.

46

her hair was smoky, andher breath smelled of alcohol --not enough, though,not nearly enough.

but I was weak, andeventually, I grew tired of wordsand of tearsand I pulled her in close and made herswear that this would never happen again,and then, in grasping at my pride,I made love to her.

when we finished, she looked no lesspitiful,and I felt it no less,but at least I was able to sleep.

47

(untitled)

by night, I was the dewthat gathered on your grass;by morn’, the frost upon your windowpane;

by eve, I was the moon,returned, to glow for you,but I could never be the sunlight to your day.

48

fingernails

your fingernails,or, what’s left of them,tell all the talesyou never could,of all the loveyou’ve never feltfor yourself,or for anyone else.

a part of meis still buried beneaththe shallow, emptyspace betweenthe skin uponyour fingertip,and your fingernails,or, what’s left of them.

49

cull

I plucked out my hairs, and still they grew,cut down the grass, and it grew too;and in these acts, I feel less shame,that when you tore me down, I still grew for you.

50

fountain of youth

the fountain of youthis no sacred waterto bathe withinor drink from a chalice.

it does not hidein the corners of maps,but in the cornersof the heart.

it is love,honest and pure,that will squeeze the valuefrom your years,and keep your spirityoung and alive.

51

for Ashley

oh devilish girl,lift your eyes from the dirt.I, too, know your pain.

we are all broken homes,in our flesh and bone,abandoned in the dead ofwinter, by the ones wehoused so warmly in our hearts.the lights die out, andonce lively bedrooms now fillwith void, a mirror of therecesses dug into our minds.the warmth within those walls hasleft, along with the inhabitants;now the pipes all creakin the blistering cold, and theframed faces of lovers lostgather frost and fadeinto the dark.

52

do not fret, though;your walls are always standing,even if they sway in the wind,and when the summer monthsreturn, you will still be beautiful,and the sunlight will shine throughyour windows, casting breathtaking patternsacross your face, andas you smile, a new heart willfind a home in you.

all you must dois remain sturdy and strong,unweathered by theshivering chill.

53

on my knees

that sort of lovewasn’t healthy --I sang her name likea hymn of worship,built statues to her visage behindmy eyelids, pumped her voicethrough my veins, andpracticed her body language like faith.

on my knees atthe altar, I’dfilled my heart tobursting with hers,and left no room in therefor myself.

54

(untitled)

I always had to prythe truth from your lips,and when I did,your slumbering tongue fought back.

55

glare

I looked upto the sun, and wentblindfrom too muchlight.

I thinkthat’s what happenedwith you,too.

butthe sun setand tookthe light with it,and I suppose you did the same.

56

your place in me

my motheralways used totell methat people came into our livesfor eithera reason,a season, ora lifetime.I think, in some waysyou fit all three.

you planted hopewithin my heart,renewed my tired love of words,and though you leftwith the season’s shift,you’ll always hold a place in me.

57

I loved a sad girl once

I loved a sad girl once,but there wasn’t muchin it for me.

I spoiled her rotten,gave hereverything I had,and in some respect, shedid the same for me --but she didn’t have much to give.

she wasn’t ready tofall in love, orto show her heart to anyone,except maybe the devil.

we fucked like animals,until she could no longer standthe sight of me,or the taste;but she stuck arounda little longer.

I never quite knew why;I think she just wanted to be saved.

58

what I miss most

what I miss most are notthe most expensive ormemorable dates, thebusy days oreventful nights,the distance places traveled,or the priceless gifts purchased, butthose moments that seemed sofleeting andunremarkable.

lying at lengths across your bed,discussing the latest news andhumming along toour favorite songs,while you chose amovie for us to watch, and Imassaged your tired feet,and we decided whattoppings wewanted on the pizza.

59

subject

I sat and wrote, for hours on endabout everything I ever have been;I talked of music, and family, and friends,and all the books I’ve ever read;

of every dollar I’ve ever spent,and the moon, and stars, and the sunset;of every job I’ve ever had,and every crook who’s shared my bed.

I wrote of years and the life I’ve ledand all the thoughts within my head,but I found that everything I saidwas somehow about you, instead.

60

storm

the thunderroaringin the distancebegged menot to to trust you,but the stormwithin mysoulseemed far darkerthan the onewithinyour heart.

61

rainfall

I watchedthe rain today;studied close, as itcollidedwith the pavement,and dispersed,and it reminded meof the wayI fell into you;helplessly,hopelessly,and in entirety,the wholeof my selfcrashing downand becominglostin you,while your attention wasever occupiedby every otherdropof water thatfloatedso lightly downto kiss your skin.

62

kindling

some might call this asuicide mission,bound to end ina burst of flames,but I’ve been gathering all thistinderin my chest formonths now, andit’s starting tobend my ribs andpress tight against myheart, and it’s causing mea great deal of pain.I think it’s timeI tend to it.

and what else iskindling good for, anyway,beside lighting firesand burning away?

63

loneliness

everyone is lonely,even those who aren’t alone;begging for a loverto make us feel at home.

but that isn’t the problem;sorrow isn’t solitude.sadness lives inside your heartand takes its hold of you.

stop searching for your joyin the hands of someone else;no amount of shared compassioncan make you love yourself.

happiness is yours to take;it’s born within the soul,and only when you’ve found that blisswill you feel less alone.

64

the drive home

You know when you’re driving in the late afternoon, and you’ve just gotten out of work, and you’re exhausted,

following the same road you’ve traveled countless times before, and you sort of space out? You’re driving, but you aren’t aware of it. You fade into the music spilling from your speakers, or

into your most mundane thoughts, and everything else passes by like a blur. And suddenly, it’s over, and you’re parked in

the driveway, trying to recall how you got there, or when you turned, or whether you followed the speed limits. The entire

journey was so simultaneously vital and routine that you didn’t even realize you were on it, until it ended, and then you’re left

sitting alone in silence, scrambling to grasp any memory of the road that led you here, and how it all happened.

Loving you was a lot like that.

65

the spreading disease

you move throughbones and bodiesand promiseslike a plaguethrough nations, likea wildfire inthe forest of love;branches left smoldering in theaftermath, as youcarry onto the next.

conquer every man you’ve known,infect his heart and claim it yours;manifest destiny in a godless world.

66

(untitled)

I loved youwith everyounceof my self,butyour eyesweretoo busywanderingand wonderingto everstareinto mine.

67

“and Guest”

silverware collides with glass,and the couple shares a kiss;newlyweds looking on at each otherwiht a passion I know too well.I turn my gaze to your seat,and read those two words over again.

your plate remained empty.I danced alone.

68

still

I still have your tasteon my tongue,and your sweet scentstill lingers on;

I still can feelyour touch uponmy tired skinand blemished bones.exhausted lungsstill breathe you in,but you’ve still gotthe advantage,for I still clingto a memory,but you still clutchmuch more of me.

I feel your ghostin each of my pores,but you still holdmy heart in yours.

69

my mustache

it started as a joke, becauseit looked awful on me,standing like wiresfrom out my face.

I only kept it becauseI was in a period ofrecluse, and it helped toward away women.I wanted to go unnoticedand undesired.

but when the new baristahanded me my coffee,all of that was athing of the past.she was stunning,funny, andpleasant, too --I damn near proposedright then and there,but I looked a fool,and she hardlypaid me any mind.

70

I shaved those strings from above my lipthe moment I got home,and I visit the coffeeshop each day,but we’ve never met again.

71

oversaturation

I tried to write all my thoughts of you,but by the end, the page wasso oversaturated with inkthat you couldn’t see the white,or distinguish where one letter endedand another began.and so, I started again,writing our story a hundred times over,but never once being able toread the final product clearly.

I think it’s best I burn the papers and let go.

72

hands

vocabulary

do not dress your thoughtsin expensive gownsto show and flowat first sight --instead, strip them down,let them be nude,free,unspoiled byscholarly tongues,and if they remain asbeautiful, thenyou never neededthe gown tobegin with.

74

ghost town

Laura looked old at 27;her figure was lost, and hereyes were empty,and she sighed more than she spoke.

I guess that’s whatthis place does to you, though.it ages you.wears you down.not just your body, butyour heart.it leeches on your hopes,drains your passion, andleaves you weary and woeful.

most start drinking, tocounteract the curst.I began writing.I’m not sure which is worse.

I wonder who Laura wasin high school;what she wanted to do,who she wanted to be --it surely couldn’t have beena ghost.

75

family

I’ve spent the pastyearof my lifeplucking stringsin a basementwith the only people I’ve everbeen able to call myfriends.

and though I’ve spentevery dollar I’ve had,and exhausted every resource,and burned a few bridges,there is no other place I’d rather bethan right hereright nowsinging these songs wewrote together.

76

amendment

I am not a good person.I don’t know you, andyou don’t know me,and you don’t love me,and you don’t want to.I am not these words.I am more than black letterson a white page,or maybe I am less, butI am not a good person.you don’t know me and I don’t know you.I am a mess of skewed beliefs, andpoor decisions, bound and buried in my throat,and in my hand, writing,and sometimes the words areinteresting to read,but it is not interesting to love.

I am not a good person.you don’t know meand I don’t know youand we do not know each other,and I like it better that way.

77

newborn

“look! isn’t headorable?”

“oh yes, and big!”

“Jill said he wasseven pounds!”

their eyes turned to me.“don’t you think he’s beautiful?”

he looked like all the rest,bald andwide-eyedand clueless as hell;just anotherfuckingbabyborn into thisshit.

78

virtue

her name wasPatience --ironic, as she had none.she was always slow, alwaysdragging her feet,but always in a stressful hurry,complaining about thisor that,everything that was wrong in her life.

someone needed to buy her a bra,and maybe a towel, becauseher hair always looked wet,and some chapstick, too.

she walked to work every day,and although we all knew her,nobody ever stoppedto pick her up,and she would sit alone at lunch, anddo these crossword puzzleswhile listening to classical musicso loud in her headphones that thewhole room could hum along,

79

and she wouldn’t hear them at all,humming, orlaughing at her, as sheshouted aloudthe answers to her puzzle.

oh, but I envied that girl,because, as everyone at my table cringed,and joked, and pointed fingers,myself included,and even though she always seemed panicked,her eyes glowed with the musicand her brain turned in gearts, tofill in the blanks on those puzzles,and she just kept working, and listeningand smiling.

80

the voice in my throat

a lot of writers talk aboutvoices in their heads,and you know what?that’s bullshit.

they don’t have voices in their heads.I don’t have voices in my head.I have one voice, andthey have one voice,and they’re too damn scared to everuse itso they keep it locked awayand let it write pretty wordsor dangerous words,honest words,while they force a smile andmake small talk with the neighbor.

81

art

I was never good witha paintbrush, orPhotoShop,or pencils, or clay,or a camera,or charcoal,or cray-pas (what in the hell is a cray-pa, anyway?)

but words?they taught us thosein grade school.

82

seventy-four cents

the wall of pens at the store wasoverwhelming;some were thin,some thick,some had grips,some had caps,some clicked,some were black,and some were blue,and others spanned therainbow.some even had two tips!oh, but whatpurpose could that serve?

they had 12-packs for $8,and 2-packs for $1,and some 4-packs were asexpensive as $10 --those must have been some really nice ones.

83

but I leaned in and grabbed apouch, filled withtwelvebasic, black, gripless, single-tipped, capped pens.the pack was 74 cents,and their ink would convey my thoughtsjust as well, and I’d still have money for note paperand for a coffee.

84

every day was doomsday

we laughed at the idea, butI think inside, we were allprayingfor the end.

some were more invested in it than others.some just had a bad morning.others were only tired, or annoyed,or sad,and some were sick of the year;and then, there were those likeme; so exhaustedby the world, and everything in it,that we kept ourfingers crossedwhile we turned the pages of the calendar,hoping we’d findthe end, like thelast page of a book westopped caring for long ago,but kept reading,if only for the sake of sayingwe never gave up on the author.

85

a concert

miles away from here, strangers aresinging and sweating in a crowd,before artists they’d say havesaved their lives --I nearly joined them --but I’ve found greater joyaround a fire, with a smallaudience, sharingdrunken laughter, andintimate friendship.

86

(untitled)

I was waking early, and workingwell into the afternoon,and attending classes right after that,well into the night,and then I’d get home andtry to remembersomething interestingthat had happened during the dayor the weekor the monthso I’d have something to write about,and I’d write until midnight,or sometimes, later,well into the morning,and I’d hardly ever sleep,and it was busy,often stressful,and it was detached,often lonesome,but by god, was itthe best time of my life.

87

my father and I

my father and I slowly grew apartthrough the years --so when the day come tosay goodbye,I hugged him tight and didn’tlet go -- (he was only leaving for nine weeks, but it was our first formal departure)

decades of love came to bursting,and I think I heard himsucking back tears.

we never spoke of that hug again,but I think about it every day,and I know he does the same.

88

the diner

the more I visited that diner,the more I began torecognizethe regulars.

like the middle-aged mechanic,who always sat at the endof the counter, and triedto talk up the hostess.

the young couple whoseemed to be in love, but whodidn’t know how to express it,except through another cup of coffee.

the mentally challenged family,who always walked in smiling,and joked with the waitress aboutholding their table for them.

and the two old coupleswho always came together,and always ordered the rib special.

I wonder who they allknew me as.

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purpose

my mother sold houses,which eventually became homes,and my father taught yoga,which eventually strengthened bones,and my sister sat in classrooms,which buried her in loans,but I’m content to sit in this chair,quietly writing alone.

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solipsism

red shag rugbelow my feet;or is it purle?hardwood?sky?

there is no rug.there is no red.there is no sky.I have no feet.

I float away,inhale the sun,exhale your bedroom,digest a cloud;

shake hands withphotographs,and make love to a storm.

scratch film fromher scream,impregnate the earth,juggle the seasand swallow god.

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you are not reading this.you are notyou, are not.but I’ll think you are.I’ll think, you are.I think : you areI think.

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the bones in the river

two years ago,I took an art class atthe local community college.the class was full of facesI cannot remember,but for one;

one student stood out -- he was odd, and sad, and I didn’t care much for him, but he immediately took a liking to me. I suppose he didn’t catch my annoyance, for he would often come to me with stories from home, or inappropriate jokes --but I never paid him in any mind.

last year, in the river by my house (the one with the waterfall that crashes over the rocks)the student took his life.the entire town pulsedwith melancholy,and memories of his smile.I didn’t say much on the matter then.

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now, they hold waterfire on that riverin the Summer months, to the tune ofwhatever godawful local bar rock bandthey can afford to put on the stage.the townspeople gather and sing, andgawk at the flames, and share news of wheretheir children are going to school, andhow they’re getting remarried, orpromoted, or being made grandparents.

nobody ever mentions the bonesburied beneath the river.

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letters to former selves

7; I know you never want togrow older; don’t worry, you

don’t have to.

8; you broke your arm, butnot your spirit.

bravo.

13; please cut your hair,grunge is dead and you

look ridiculous.

16; freedom will come, when you areready for it. relax andenjoy the ride -- oh,

and don’t be so hard on yourparents.

17; you ought to straighten up your act,or you’ll wind up in coffeeshops and

bars, reading poems andwondering where life went wrong.

18; don’t move in with her --it’s much too soon, andyoung love never lasts.

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19; told you so.

20; trust your sister’s advice,don’t fall for this girl; she’ll

tear you apart.

yesterday; lift your head, anddon’t stress so much.tomorrow will come,

as it always does.

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resolve

black frames slidedown the bridge of my nose,along the grease of an unwashed face,and an underdeveloped dream.I wipe the oil away,push them back up, andreturn my handsto the keyboard.

there is work tobe done.

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artists

the creative community hasdwindled; the onlyaudience left is composeof the other artists.

galleries fill with painters,silently judging thework of their peers, toinflate their pride.

the stools at all thepoetry readingsare occupied by poets,only half-listening, whilereciting their lines, andwaiting for their turn to read.

even at the localhardcore shows,the only attendeesare the other bands,critiquing and tuning,and biding their time.

nobody cares for theart any more;they only want exposition.

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the beast

I don’t think anyoneplans on being a writer.it sort of justhappens to you;life takes its toll, andsome respond in word,and once you’ve started --once you’ve let thebeast into your life --you can never free yourselfof him.you need him, tosurvive, else you’ll gomad.

it starts innocently enough --you write a poem, or astory, and you get the thought out, and you think you’re done; but then, you start to wonderabout releasing other thoughts, andthen, every fleeting idea you havebecomes an anvil in your chest,and you cannot stand straightuntil you’ve written it down,and left the weightat the tip of the pen.

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we didn’t plan on being writers.we are simplyplagued by the beast.

we are the delicate ones,the aching few,the bleeding few,spilling out across note pagesand clinging desperately to our hearts.

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mornings

sunday;the house of god fills, asmen bow and worship,

confess to their sins,and absolve themselves of guilt.

monday;the churches stand empty.

men rise from bed and dress,close their sins behind the door,and return home to their wives.

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r&r

these are the hours Ilive for,my hair rinsed with grease,and my back,awash with the seat of along work day,sitting now at the diner,between twoempty stools,sipping coffee with mylate afternoon breakfast, andscribbling my thoughts acrosstoo-white note pages, as Ihalf-listen to the news andtry to avoid the unkind glances of the oldercouple to my left.

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scars

when I was ashamed,people would ask,and I would answer withsome ridiculous storythat I alwaysmade upon the spot,because I was too stupidto everpreparefor this sort of thing.

“my cat is an asshole”(I didn’t have a cat)

“I was in a fight”(I’ve always been a pacifist)

“I got into an accident”(I know it’s vague, I’m just praying you’ll take a hint and stop asking)

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I’m notashamedany more, butfor some reason,nobody asksany more,either.

104

I am no one

I don’t want to know your name, andyou don’t need to know mine.

I do not want tojoin your “writers network,” oranswer your interview questions,or read your poems, and I’mcertainly not qualifiedto critique them.

I don’t want to discuss yourfavorite bands, or mine,or either of our goals,and I can’t offer you advice, and Idon’t need yours.

I don’t want to be your friend --don’t get me wrong, Idon’t want to beenemies, either.

I just want to write and beleft alone;is that too much to ask?

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background music

they played the same music atwork every day, so thateven if youhated those songs,you learned them andbegan to hum along.I think that was whatthey wanted --it helped to drown out yourrestless thoughts, ofwalking out of that god-awful place.

I started bringing headphonesto work with me. I didn’tlisten to anything in them --I just wanted the music tostop, so I couldhear myself think.

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my writer friend

he’d message me from time to time,with news about hislatest sucess --he was writing on a typewriter, now,one he’d fixed uphimself, andhe’d been nominated for someaward that said he was good,and he might evenbe published --that’s how you know you’re good!

he showed me a few things he’d written,and I didn’t muchcare for them.but what do I know?

so how are things goingfor me?

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I don’t want to be good.I like my pen and paper, andI like my anonymity --what’s left of it, anyway --and if I picked up somemagazine, and saw my words inside,there would behell to pay.

108

coughing

like mucus from the throatof a coughing man,these writings purge the sicknessfrom my head.

109

cemetery

how strange is itthat we, as grief-stricken loversand familyand friendspluck lively flowers from the earthto drop their corpsesbefore thewilted stemsof our loversand friendsand family,plucked, too,but by who?

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all the company I need

one by one, people began dropping out of my life,and I can’t say I was sad about it.

they’d come to me with questions, like“where have you been?”or“why don’t we talk any more?”

and I’d string them along with somefairy taleabout how I’m sorry, and I’ve justbeen busy, that’s all (after all, I was a student and I had a full-time job, and a band to focus on)and they’d get angry or annoyed,and I’d pretend to be upset about it,to preserve their ego.

or sometimes, I just wouldn’t answer at all,because how could I explain it to them?who would ever believethat I would rather sit alone at my deskwith a pen and a notepadand a fresh cup of teathan go out and partyor make friendsor keep them?

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self-fulfilling prophecy

the internet age;everyone was lonely, andtalking withimages of strangers on aweb page, a blog,about their“sexual frustration,’ like it was somethingtangible,universal, likeyou could see it in test scores, orinherit it in your genes.

we made it real becausewe were all too chickenshitto ever admit thatwe were just horny kidswho spent too much time on the internetto ever develop any social skills.

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I may not be good, but at least I am true

in Reno,there is a wall that askswhat you want to do before you die,and people have filled in answers,and they’re all such bullshitthat they may as well haveleft the spaces blank.

things like“give free hugs”or“make someone’s day,”or my favorite, “live,”just vague enough toabandon responsibility.

before I die,I’d like to make filthy, sweet lovewith an ex’s best friend --I mean, really fuck hercute little brains out.I’d like to put a bulletinto someone’s flesh --not anyone in particular, I justwant to know that feeling.

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I’d like to spit in all their faces,and especially hers,and I’d like to know that you died, andI’d like to start a war,and I’d like to be left alone.

I’d like to hear an uncensoredanswer to this question. I want you toknow your dreams, yourvile, disgusting dreams.

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writer’s block

you wouldn’t hold me with suchesteem, if you could onlysee me now,laying sideways across my reclining chair, staring at afuzzy computer screen, andwondering where my glasses are.

there’s a guitar across my chest,and a pick between my teeth, butI don’t know what to play,so my fingers are justdancing on the strings,out of rhythm,out of time

my hair is a mess and I’mstill in the same clothes I woreyesterday, butI’m not going anywhere,and why should I do laundry twice?I am filthy and pungent, andmy desk is cluttered withempty pens and coffee cupsand full note pages,but none of them say anythinguseful.

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I need something newto write about.

116

(untitled)

a burning building,when viewedfrom the proper angle,conceals the flamesjust long enoughto let them grow,until they’ve consumedtoo muchto save the wallsfrom falling.

117

stories

when I was little, I loved Batman,so much so that I wanted tobe him --I’d make capes out of myfather’s old tanktops, and I’drun around the house, fightingimaginary villains, andsolving petty crimes,like determing who ate thelast bowl of cereal, or who left the toilet seat up.

it was my dream job, and I wasconvinced I had what it took --but one day, my mother pulled me asideand asked “what if you can’t really be Batman?”

the thought had nevereven crossed my mind.

I stared at her for a moment,before answering with ease, “if I can’t be Batman, then I’d like to tell stories.”

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the regular

I had this one customerwho came in all the timewith his wife, and theirgranddaughter -- I don’t know what happened to her parents.some people said he hit his wife.I don’t know about that either.

he always had thesesladders and toolsin the back of his truck, that werecollectively worthprobably twice the truck itself,but I couldn’t imaginea guy like that climbing a ladder --he was big, and slow, and he wouldn’t even lift his feetwhen he walked - justslide them forwardacross the floor.

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he learned my namepretty quick, even thoughI never told him,and he’d always shout itwhen he saw me, beforegrumbling throughsome boring story -- his truck was in the shop, or he had oats for breakfast, or there was a sale on that milk.

normall, I’d hate those stories,but they carried a different tune,coming from the space betweenhis bushy, gray beard.

it was a song of honesty --I mean, he wasn’t justmaking small talk.these were really the mostinteresting and important thingsto happen to him all week.

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I liked that.he didn’t give you bullshit.the guy was straightforward,and real, andnot too many peopleare, these days.

he’d share his life with me,and I was happy to hear it,even if it meantneglecting my other customers.

my coworkers didn’t get it.they didn’t like that guy --stood by that he was theabusive type, anda boring conversation on top of it,but I liked listening to him speak,and anyway,I never saw him beat his wife,so who was Ito judge?

121

I miss that guy.I don’t miss the job, or the nasty rumors, butI miss that guy,and his conversation,and his wife.

I hope they’re alright.

122

(untitled)

I’m a veryaverage writer --I won’t deny it.I often stumble intrying to word my thoughts,and I’m not convincedmy thoughts are eveninteresting enoughto share.

I haven’t read many of“the greats” in lit,or studied too farinto their authors.

I flunked almost every English course I’ve taken --I’m not even an English major, and Ijust didn’t get good gradesoverall, butespecially noton papers.

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plus, I hardly ever crackedthe assigned readings, orthe textbooks, ormy notebook, for that matter.

but I’m at least honestin my ink-stained ramblings,and that’s got to countfor something, right?

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old soul

at the ripe age of twenty,I was beginning to feel like anelderly man,but it had nothing to do withmy bad knees,or a loss of memories,or the way I styled my hair, or dressed,or my appreciation forclassical music and naps;

it was nothing I saidand nothing I didand nothing I knewand nothing I loved,and it was everythingthat the rest of them were not.

125

the company

I imagine the company as a plump man,so fat, he can’t even walk right,and he smells horrid, andslobbers when he speaks,but he has no troublelifting another donutto his face.

or sometimes, I think it’s a lonely girl,so miserably lonely,because her parents never loved her,and her friends all left,and she’s never loved herself,so she settles for lettingman after manlust at her, instead.

overindulgence at itsrepulsive,driveling finest.

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my only memory of that day

the sky was orange, and cloudy,but not with the normalwhite and gray clouds --no, this was a dark, thick smoke,the kind you could smell.

they had let us out of school early,and I didn’t know why.it wasn’t a holiday; at least, not one anyone knew of;and it wasn’t a day of memoriam; at least, not yet.

but I didn’t care. I wasyoung, and innocent, andeager to be anywherebut at a schooldesk.

I stormed through the door,shouted to my mother, “guess what! they let us out early!”

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but she didn’t answerlike she normally would --the house was silent, and Iwalked into the living room, to find herhuddled around her knees on the floor,with her hand over her mouth,staring at the television throughwide and watering eyes,repeating the same phrase; “oh my god.”

I had never heard of the World Trade Centerbefore that day.

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wits’ end

after two years with the company,I’d reached my wits’ end; I was brokenby routine and by discontent,and yet, I had coworkers who had been therefor five or ten or evenfifteen years -- they had the silver nametags to prove it, and theywore them with pride, as thoughthey enjoyed this life, while I, just two years down, was ready to cut the cord andend it --over a job! they werepaying me to be there, and I was paying favor to death.

but I hadn’t lost it all. not yet.my coworkers, they’d signed awayeverything: a lifetime of servitude, for what? I’d only lost a chunk ofmy youth. I just neededone compelling last straw,one final reason to walk awayand never look back.

I wonder when the others stopped waiting.129

wanderlust

it grew in me, likea virus,a wisp of smoke in my head,thick tar built uponmy soul, andthe more I tried toignore it,the greater itthrived.

it boiled, festered,compounded and made me heavy,despondent,and thenbore its way through my skull,fell beforemy eyes, and bitdown on my heart,venom in my veins,until I couldno longer dreamof anything else,but escape.

130

the celebrity

once, while I was reading at thecoffeehouse, acelebrity walked by.I recognized him instantly, as didthe girls at the table behind me;he was clearly in a hurry, butthey stopped him;clamored and beggedfor an autograph and a photo.

he was exhausted, annoyed, buthe stood before the camera, andplayed the role.

as the picture was being taken,the starlit man glanced my way; Ismiled at him, and nodded knowingly, and his eyes began to glow,and I saw him breath deeply,and relief washed over him, in avisible light.

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he walked a little lighterout of that place, and I’dlike to think that I helped.

132

the poets

I am sick to death of all thepoets, writingall the same damn poems.there’s no heart in it --they float on delicate tongues,speak on corners of theearth that they’ll neverlive to see, and otherworldly phenomenathat only exist in dreams.confound the simples thoughts, andskate on long-dead syntax,vocabulary, and rhythm, as though theiraudience be the gods themselves.

but drop them from the cloud,bring them down toground level, equalize them withthe audience, and they struggleto feel in real time.

life is not a fairy tale, andpeople are not galaxies;your reader is merely human.

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speak s l o w l yand calmlyin tune with their hearts;sing their thoughts and feeltheir ache, aligned with yours.

your task is not for the mostsaturated brushstroke,but the most true, touching,recognizable.

134

solitude

I am rarely plagued by isolation;indeed, there is a certain joythat comes of solitude --but there are times,when I am layingin my bed alone,the morning after afestive night, when thissprawling lonelinesscreeps its way under my ribs, andsettles on my heart,coursing through myblood, andleaving me wishingthere were someone at my sideto soothe my pulsing headand support my tired bones.

135

power

my friends and I arehuddled in a circleon the floor, glowingin dim candlelight.violent winds outsidecarry debris, andthrow it at thewalls around us.

the computers are dead.the phones are dead.the hands of the clocks stoppedturning, and nobodyknows when they’ll move again.

the room is littered withempty chip bags andplastic cups,and full ashtrays,and we haven’t gotmuch to eat, andeven less to wear, butwe’ve got our body heat,and a few guitars,and we’ve got our voices,and no storm can put outthat sort of power.

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ao-oa

to you, who has turned these pages, I am eternally grateful

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