Some Kind of Monster by The Subtopian

Copyright ÂŠ 2013 by Kirby Light All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2013

ISBN 0-9000000-0-0

The Subtopian Press P.O. Box 873879 Vancouver wa 98687.

www.Subtopian.com

S O M E KI ND OF MONS T E R

For Leslie

Nobody reads forwards. . .

…so if you are reading this, I’ll consider you my friend and keep it short. The first poem I wrote was “Just a Ditty” which you can read here. The short stories came along with the poems. Most of what’s in this collection are old exercises, muscle flexing. I hadn’t written in such a long time and needed to stretch my legs, so to speak. I had always had an aversion to poetry for the same reason that most people have an aversion to poetry: pretension, ambiguous meaning, and a lack of understanding. I found it intimidating. But poetry turned out to be an easy thing when I started writing it, there’s no great literary merit in these pages, the only influences I had at the time, besides the life I was living, was the book House of Leaves and the writings of Charles Bukowski. I really had no idea what I was doing when I started writing poetry. Since then my reading of poetry has expanded and I learn more about it every day. The poems are changing, but here in Some Kind of Monster you have the first leg of the journey, the early stuff. I don’t know who you are or where you’re from or where you’re going but here’s some of where I’ve been. But enjoy and good luck.

some kind of monster

Some Kind of Monster

Green

Kirby Light

C l a i r e stood at the stern of the boa t, pe r f e c tly f r a me d by the door wa y o f th e b o a t ’s c a b i n . I a n w a lked towards her. The dark walls passing until they were gone. H e s t e p p e d f o r ward but didn’t leave the shadow of the cabin. It felt warm, tropic a l wa r m t h , o p p ressive almost, if not f or the br e e z e going a c r oss the oc e a n. E m e r a ld green islands laid b e yond he r. C l a i r e stood, leaning over, looking a t the wa te r, f inge r s ba r e ly touc hing th e r ai l i n g . S h e wore a hoodie, with the hood up, jeans, sneakers and she held he r p u r s e . S h e l o o k e d r adiant under the sun, he r sof t c ur ve s a nd line s a r c hing down. I a n sl o w ly raised his hand and put a n or a nge slic e in his mouth, the n st e p p e d i n t o t h e su n . C l a i r e turned, looked at him, bla nkly, thr ough he r ha ir, with gr e e n e ye s . Sh e b l i n k e d a n d her lashes pulled on he r ba ngs, ma king the m bounc e . A n d j ust as Ian opened his mouth to say something, he woke up. Like o p e n i n g a d o o r a n d walking into another ro om, I a n wa s gone f r om the boa t a nd Cla ir e . H e lay in his bed. A s o f t blue light fell in through the blinds. Ian stared up at the spinnin g c e i l i n g f a n . He sighed and rose slowly, throwing his legs over the side of the b e d . H e s a t a n d s tared at the walls. He contemplated them. They waited. W h e n Ian decided to move he reached over, picked up an ultra fine poin t s h a r p i e a n d popped the cap off. Papers covered the night stand. They were co v e r e d i n w r i t i n g , s carred with lines and lines of ink. One sheet of paper was half wh i t e . Ia n w r o t e t h e w ords: soft curves a nd line s. And the n it tr a ile d off into nothin g . I a n l o oked at the sentence fr a gme nt. Soft c urv e s and line s… “ S o f t curves and lines, w hat? ” He whispe r e d. I a n l o oked at all the pages of poems on his night stand. A lot of them w e r e ab o u t w o m e n he had know n. C a t h a r sis existed as a w ord f or pe ople who ha ve tr ouble with r oma nc e .

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I a n r e ached across his night stand. He picked up his cell phone. It was e l e v e n i n t h e m o r n i ng on Saturday. No messages. Claire was probably fucking someb o d y b y n o w, I a n t h o u ght. A d r i l l ing noise came from somewhere in the house. Ian turned from hi s p h o n e a n d l i s t e n e d . He got up, took his robe from the back of the desk chair and put i t o n . H e p i c k e d u p his cigarettes, put one in his mouth, walked out of his room, an d d o w n t h e h a l l t o t he kitchen. B e i n g a w riter, Ian som etime s thought in na r r a tion. He f ound ne w wa ys o f d e sc r i b i n g h is kitchen every time he wa lke d into it. T h e k i tchen, for the most part, was a laboratory, a studio, a dance floor, a n d a t o o l s h e d . Being the second largest room in the house it was where most of t h e l i v i n g h a p p e ned. A disco ball hung from the chandelier, black lights were in t h e c e i l i n g o u t l e ts, a blue light above the sink. A ledge was above the entrance in t o t h e k i t c h e n a nd a w hite plastic sta tue of a pr a ying Virgin Ma r y—tha t a gr oup o f g i r l s h a d s t o len for Ian and his roommates at Christmas—sat up there with se v e r a l d i ff e r e n t c o l ored lights in her, causing her color to change from red to blue to g r e e n . D i r t y dishes w ere piled in the sink. The ga r ba ge c a n ove r f lowe d. On th e ta b le i n t h e c o r n e r lay a pile of electronic s tha t we r e ta ke n a pa r t, a s we ll a s dr ills, s c r e w d r i v e r s, E x a cto knives, w ires and mor e wir e s, c ut up two by f our s. I n the oth e r co r n e r w a s Max’s D J stand w ith his tur nta ble s on it, se ve r a l la rge spe a ke r s, a s u b w o o f e r, a n d amp. Wires came out of everything, wrapped around everything, c r a w l e d ac r o ss t h e f l oor like spider veins. The c ounte r s a nd f loor we r e stic ky. O u t s i de on the patio Max sa t drilling screws through the back of a com p u t e r m o n i t o r, a t t a ching it to a foot and a ha lf high woode n sta nd. I a n st o od inside the patio do or wa y. “ You got it a ll f ixe d? ” He a ske d. “ A l m o st.” Max picked up th e screen and put it back on the rest of the m o n i t o r, “n o w I k n o w w hy they have little Asia n pe ople put this stuff toge the r.” M a x s tood at about six two, lanky, as skinny as a corn stalk. He had a g r e e n

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Mo h a w k , w hich was down and combed to the side, and a face full of piercing s . S t a n d i n g , h e resem bled a scarecro w. “ N o w check this shit out,” Max said. He reached over and plugged his l a p t o p i n t o t h e o u t s ide electrical socket. The entire thing lit up. “That shit fuckin ro c k s . Br e a k i n g m y lap top w as kind of a ble ssing.” Ma x h ad taken apart his broke n la p top, r e moving the c r a c ke d LCD sc re e n , an d a t t a c h i n g the still usable key boa r d to the ne wly mounte d c ompute r monito r. H e ad d e d a sl i d ing draw er to the stand f or the ke y boa r d. The monitor now took u p a ll t h e sp a c e w here the old lap top w o uld sit. The mixe r a nd c ontr ol X- 1 sa t unde r n e a th . A s m a l l p l a s tic fan glowed green underneath. Everyday Ian became more and m o r e i m p r e sse d w ith his room m ate’s ing e nuity a nd e nvie d his a bility with tools. I an h a d n o m a n sk i l l s like that. C a t h a r sis w as for people w ho ne ve r le a r ne d a ny ma n skills. “ N o w I ’m all ready for m y g ig this we e ke nd,” Ma x sa id sta nding up. He re a c h e d i n t o his pocket and took o ut his c iga r e tte s. He lit one . I a n st e pped outside and lit his. “ S o I was telling bitch cunt,” Max began, “about all the gigs I have com i n g u p an d t h e g i g I have in S eattle and she wa s te lling me a bout the a r t show she ’s h a v in g i n P o r t l a n d , right?” “ Ri g h t .” M a x d rew off his cigarette and smiled, “Well, I think I can fuck some s h i t u p . S h e sa i d ‘ w e ’re both certainly m aking wa ve s f or our se lve s,’ whic h is f unny b e c a u s e Dic k F a c e d oesn’t w ork and occasiona lly goe s to sc hool. And I a lr e a dy know th a t h e i s n ’t c o m f o r table, w ith her, being a lone with me .” Ma x’s smile wide ne d. I a n st a rted laughing, “that’s some e vil f uc ke r y. I a ppla ud you sir.” Ma x n odded, “thank you.” Bitch cunt: Max’s ex-girlfriend. Dick face: Max’s former roommate and friend. “ I ’ m s urprised to see you awake so early,” Ian said. “I figured you wou l d n ’t

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b e h o m e a f t er the party.” “ I t g o t shut down. A bunch of punk rockers showed up and started some f i g h t s s o e v e r y o n e split.” “ L a m e .” “ Ye a h , but w hatever. I stole some be e r on the wa y out. Wa nt one ? ” “Sure.” Ma x r e ached dow n and pulle d a be e r out of a buc ke t of ic e . “ Cl a ssy,” Ian said. “ I t r y. ” Max handed Ian the be e r. I a n o p e ned it and took a drink. C a t h a rsis was for people who drank, Ian thought. “We should be carefu l . T h e r e ’s a g o od chance that punkers might show up here for one of our parties . We s h o u l d b u y a cattle prod or som ething just in c a se .” M a x t hought about this. “Nah, I’ll just dominate them with my superior Mo h a w k . ” I a n l a ughed. “ H o w ’s the w riter ’s block?” Ma x a ske d. I a n t o ok a drink from his be er. “Still got nothing. It’s been about a mon t h n o w. I t ’s l i k e I’m im potent or some thing.” “ D o n ’t think about it too muc h ma n. Sta y optimistic . I t’ ll pa ss.” “ I w i sh I could share your positive na tur e .” Ma x sh rugged.” S orry dude. She still ha sn’t gotte n ba c k to you? ” “ N o t a w ord,” Ian shook his he a d. “ W ha t do you do whe n a woma n doe s n ’t g e t b a c k t o y o u ?” “ Wait a while and then try to get back in touch and if that doesn’t work, move on.” I a n t o ok a drag off his cigar ette. He looked at the ground. “Eh, I kinda l i k e d t h i s o n e . S h e w asn’t a slut and she wa sn’t c r a z y.” “ Ra r e thing. Shcw appens, ma n. Mor e f ish in the se a .”

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“ I d o n ’t like fish.” Ian took a drag from his cigarette. “I really liked ta l k i n g t o t h a t o n e . That’s all w e w ould do whe n we we r e toge the r.” “ I ’ m sorry man.” I a n sh rugged, “w hatever.” M a x t ook out his cell phone. He began taking pictures of his new stand . I a n g o t a t e x t . I t w as from L aura. S he wa nte d to know wha t he wa s doing tha t nig h t. H e s a i d p r o bably nothing. Then Ia n sent a text to his friend Gail asking how t h e b o o k w a s t h at he got her for her bir thda y. She ha dn’t r e a d it ye t. The n he ma d e p l a n s t o g o get beer with Laura that night. He got a text from Alison saying t h a t s h e wa s f e e l i n g sort of depressed and lone ly. I a n didn’t r e spond to he r. The r e wa s s till n o t h i n g f r o m C laire. Women w ome n e ve r ywhe r e but not a dr op to dr ink. B r i g h t sunlight fell on the p atio. The wind bristled the trees. The sound o f ca r s f l o o d e d over the concrete w all tha t ma de up one side of the ba c kya r d. C l a i r e had said she thought the y ha d me t in a pa st lif e . And I a n got a f a milia r fe e l i n g t h a t they had met som ew her e be f or e , but he c ouldn’t pla c e he r. This w a s n o w a y t o t r e a t someone that you had met in a past life, Ian thought. But he kne w h e h a d m e s s e d things up. He wished he hadn’t said anything while he was kissin g h e r. He w i sh e d h e hadn’t slid his hand be twe e n he r le gs, off e nding he r. Da mn thes e f a s t an d n a u g h t y hands, he thought. “ M a y b e you’re right. Maybe I’ll wait awhile and then text her or somet h i n g , ” Ia n sa i d . Ma x n odded and took anothe r photo of the sta nd. “ I g o t a question for you,” Ia n sa id, “ if you c ould be na me d a nything e ls e in t h e w o r l d , w h at w ould you be name d? ” M a x t hought about it, and then smiled, “I don’t know, I think my name s u i t s m e p r e t t y w ell.” “ Re a l l y? A re there any name s you like ? ” “ W h y d o you w ant to know ? ”

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“ I t h i n k you may end up in a stor y some da y. I wa nt to be pr e pa r e d.” “ I t h i n k K irby is pretty legit,” Ma x smile d. I a n smiled too. “You can do be tte r tha n tha t.” Ma x c losed one eye and took a dr a g off his c iga r e tte . “ Ka ine . I like that o n e . ” I a n c h u ckled. “ W h a t ’s funny?” Max asked. “ N o t h ing,” Ian said shaking his head and stepping inside. “It’s just an i n s i d e j o k e t h a t o n ly I w ould get.” C a t h a r sis w as for H enry C hina ski, I a n thought. I a n w a lked back through the house to his be dr oom. He shut the door a n d s a t o n t h e b e d . He looked at his cell phone and wondered what Claire might have b e e n d o i n g t h a t m oment. She probably found a different man, Ian thought, and thin g s we r e g o i n g s o w ell until I fucked it up. His stoma c h tur ne d. I a n h a d to figure out a way to get over that feeling. The writing usually h e l p e d , b u t i t had gone. Wo m e n. I t ’s h a rd to find people to love in the way you want to love them and to b e l o v e d , a t a l l , in return. The ones you want to stay always leave and the ones y o u wa n t t o l e a v e alw ays stay, Ian thought. C a t h a r sis w as for people w ho ha d no one to se nd the ir love to, or r e tur n it. I a n s t ared at the walls. He thought about them again. They were white. A f e w p o s t e r s w e r e tacked up. A bulletin board with rave fliers and a picture of Ren o i r ’s B a t h e r S i t t i ng on a Rock were tacked to it. A couple of paintings his sister di d a n d a b l a c k l i g h t w ere hung. A nd on one wa ll wa s wr itte n a quote , by John Che e ve r. A p a g e of good prose rem ain s inv inc ible . A n d i t w as true. I a n s t ared at the walls for ten minutes. They still waited to move in aga i n , b u t s t a y e d i n t h eir place for the moment. They were a little broken, like soldiers w i t h

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l o w m o r a l . W hen Ian thought this up he smile d. He misse d Cla ir e a nd wa nte d to ta lk t o h e r. L o o k a t w hat she had done to the wa lls. I a n r e ached across his night stand. He picked up the sharpie and the ha l f u n s c a r r e d p a per.

S he came , la id on my be d and w e ta lke d f or hour s, about fa mily and drugs and friends and passion and w or k and other little nothings that had no c onse que nc e , things tha t ma tte r e d only because the y we r e sa id

betw een us.

T hen w h e n it got da r ke r w e laid ne xt to e a c h othe r and I leane d ove r a nd kisse d he r. A nd she kisse d ve r y swe e tly. K isses so swe e t the y be a t ba c k the wa lls.

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N ow she ’s gone . to w here? I don’t know.

P erhaps to othe r me n or a nothe r town or perhaps to whe r e e ve r it is that the f og goe s w hen the sun r ise s.

A ll that’s le f t is bitte r ne ss and phos phe ne s, brow n e ye s bloc king ja de isla nds and the me mor y of sof t c ur ve s and lines, hers, drifting down into my dr e a ms.

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I know.

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I’m in love. I apologize. I know its unpleasant and I hope you’re not uncomfortable. I didn’t expect this to happen. It just did. That’s all. It’ll pass. I promise that with time you’ll be just a heart murmur.

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a poem about regret, but really a love poem in disguise

Some Kind of Monster

I feel it sometimes, at night, late maybe when I’m having a cigarette, that creeping dread like something unseen skulking behind me as I walk under street lamps in the dark,

alone.

I think of you, and all those black deeds

that made me a person I didn’t wish to be. It’s made me come to understand the darkness Marlowe spoke of. It’s made me come to understand the shadows in your eyes when you look past me.

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But the feeling fades, drifts away like ash on hot night wind, disintegrating in the rising temperature.

And as the days get longer I feel summer coming, the dread comes less and less, because I know that there will be different women, with different hair and clothes and shapes, smells.

They’ll have different ways of kissing and of crying.

And if I’m lucky, or unlucky, I’ll get to know both.

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But to let you know,

I think of you

and all those things and all Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve really come to learn is that the eyes of a new woman are the only mirrors I can bare.

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abigail

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On the softest notes Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve come to find, to my surprise, that it is at the briefest parting of your lips, where caution comes to meet the wind.

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just a ditty

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We made our bed in alchemy We traced our path amongst the stars And in our quietist moment I kissed all of her scars.

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there was a girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s name here, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gone now

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I wonder about your words the same way I wonder about your curves, you see, the lines from your pen are as dangerous as the lines of your neck and it’s hard to drive my motorcycle around those sharp and twisting turns. We’ve made a bridge of words, you and I. I think that this bridge we’ve made looks as beautiful as you do laying on my bed. I wonder if I could, sometimes, if I should slide down there next to you, run my fingers through that hair and kiss those perilous lips. I feel that only tsunamis can save this bridge from the wild fire just beyond the hill. I love this for what it is. 21

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But there are times when I turn and look at things from a certain slant, the same way that sunlight sometimes slants through an opening in an overcast sky, and I wonder how gloriously our bridge might burn.

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in a world where even the children...

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I sat in a restaurant and watched the thing.

It was between two or three years old, wearing a pink flowery tank top, white shorts with pink flowery sandals strapped to it’s feet. Its skin was dark brown, like an almond. But what I’m assuming were its parents were maybe in their fifties and white like freezer frost. It had some type of mental retardation. It had down turned eyes and a dull expression.

Too many chromosomes perhaps.

It’s way of talking was mangled words. And there was hair on it’s back, growing down it’s spine, so long that it could have been brushed and had bows put in it.

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I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to see this thing while I eat, I thought. It should have been drowned at birth.

Oh to think of children this wayâ&#x20AC;Ś

Then with a turning of my eye I thought It should have been me drowned at birth.

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blue

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To and from You never learned how to drive. So much time was spent in my car Fights Fits of tears And sex Coming home after a late movie Too tired to talk Just you leaning against me While the radio played. Do you remember That Halloween When you wore the bad blonde wig And those girls in the car next to us

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Laughed as you leaned in to kiss me. Or the times when we Fell asleep on top of each other in the front seat And You sitting on the hood of my car with your hands On my face. Saying

I finally found you

Such memories hang from my heart like icicles on the eaves of an old house in the middle of winter.

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Where does it go If only

one last car ride Before our poem ended.

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a creature that lurks, both horrifying and sad.

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Need is a word That abhors.

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a word that causes Others to face Their own Ugly Selfishness And fear.

You can find this to sometimes be True, in simply asking a stranger For a cigarette.

And it becomes hard To ask for things a person Really might need Time

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Ear Or the going to A different town With a friend Out of the blue Just to have a cigarette under a Different sky.

To feel bare feet against Your own bare feet, Under bed sheets.

Need is a Word More Terrifying Than

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Spiders And Old Age.

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itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s simple

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I was asked why I write about women so much and I considered this question. The answer I came up with

was simply

that if I were a sailor I would write about the ocean. If I were a junkie I would write about heroin. But Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m neither of these things, so I write about women.

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second place

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I’ve noticed something about men and women. That so many women have the same problem, so many of them are desperately, stupidly, in love with men who love other things, stupidly, more than their women.

Say booze, or drugs, or ambition.

Co-dependency seems like just a technical way of saying You’ve grown unaccustomed to feeling lonely. It’s made me think of the thing that I love more than women and I’ve discovered that it’s a good story, whether it’s written, filmed, sang, or even trying to live

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a good story, so I can tell it later, it’s the thing that I love more than I could love any woman

It’s the thing that will make them leave

time and again

and make me turn away

time and again

I don’t make out at movie theaters I read after sex And I shush her when the radio plays As long as the story thunders like a lighting storm I’ll slit any woman’s throat for it. And of course I write this and realize I’m just as stupid as those women and those men.

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Here I sit bland, trespassed, boring, ignorant, fat, stationary, and unloved. Not even relevant enough to have my throat slit.

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car rides in the dark

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Night and silence descended on the apartment complex. Dim orange light fell from around the corner, through the covered parking lot. It passed the patio casting shadow one way; then through the sliding glass door, around the curtain, came light from the kitchen, casting shadow the other way. Laura sat halfway in that dark, just her bare legs in the light and a hand holding a cigarette. Smoke curled up. It floated away. “I love it,” Laura said, “it’s great. I couldn’t take living at my parent’s house anymore.” “How did they feel about you moving out?” Ian asked. “Oh they were stoked. They gifted me the car.” Laura nodded and crossed her legs, slowly, a sandal hanging loosely from her toes. Then the hand disappeared into the dark. The tip of the cigarette flared. The hand came back. More smoke floated away. “Well, congratulations,” Ian said. “You got a new job and a new place.” “A new job with benefits and paid vacation,” she said. “Now you’re like everybody else.” “If that means I’m like everybody else then I guess so.” Laura sounded differently at night, sometimes when she talked with Ian, when no one else was around. She didn’t talk this way in groups. It wasn’t flirty or seductive. It was slow and comfortable and attractive. Ian took a drag off his cigarette. “My parents invited me to move back home. My dad came by me and Max’s place and he wasn’t impressed. I don’t think I could ever move back. Was it hard coming back after leaving college?” “Yeah, having to sleep on an air mattress in my parent’s living room and that damn curfew being back in place was bullshit. Now I can go out when I want, drink when I want, smoke when I 41

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want and fuck in my own bed. I get to fuck when I want. It’s nice.” Ian sometimes wondered about Laura. “Do you still happen to have that comic I loaned you?” Ian asked. “Yeah.” “Cool, could I snag that from you tonight. I’m going to get something from it tattooed on my back.” Laura smiled, “you’re welcome.” “Yeah, thanks. That was a really good idea. I think I’m going to get the broken watch as a background and get quotes put over it in white.” “I like it.” Laura was slim. She had almond skin, black hair, and cherry blossoms tattooed along her neck. “It was good seeing Chris last night,” Ian said, “I didn’t expect him to show up at our party. Too bad you didn’t make it.” “I was too stoned. I’m glad he went.” “Are you two officially back together yet?” Laura shrugged in the dark, “no, we’re just kinda trying to get our stuff done and see each other whenever we can, I guess.” Ian nodded. He took out his cell phone, looked at the time. “It’s getting late,” Ian said, “Max and I should be going.” “Yeah. I don’t want to go to work tomorrow. I just need one more day.” “Me too. How about I get that book from you now?” “Alright.” Laura tossed her cigarette butt in the ash tray. Ian did too. They went inside.

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Max lay on the couch in the living room. He had his big boots up on the arm. He ran a hand through his Mohawk. “You fallin asleep, man?” Ian asked. Max looked up, blinked slowly. “Oh no, I’m just really stoned.” “We need to get goin.” Max sighed, “yeah.” Laura walked to her room. “Come hither,” she said. Ian walked through the apartment, the smell of some type of air freshener around me. “Check out my books,” she said. Three things that Ian liked about Laura was that she smoked cigarettes as much as he did, was always drinking wine, and read. She stood in her bedroom holding a glass of wine. She wore white shorts and a white tank top. A lamp, barely bright enough to read by, lit Laura from behind, casting her in half silhouette. Ian stood and looked at the bookshelf. There was Dracula, Frankenstein, plenty of Palaniuk, the book Scar Tissue, The Heroin Diaries, Silence of the Lambs, Snow Falling on Cedars, A Clockwork Orange, and more. “Check this out,” Laura said. She pulled a small paper book off the shelf with a blue cover. She handed it to Ian. “Death Takes A Day Off?” Ian said. “You know the movie ‘Meet Joe Black’?” “Yeah.” “That movie was based on this play,” she said tapping the cover with one finger.

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“You’re going to have to let me borrow this some time.” Ian got his book. He and Max left as Laura went to pull sheets out of the dryer. They said goodbye but didn’t hug. “Text me when you get home,” Laura said. “Okay.” The door shut behind them. Ian and Max walked away from the porch light, into the dark parking lot. Max ahead, taking huge strides, his drug bag over his shoulder. Ian walked a little slower, holding his comic book. They got to Max’s car and got in. Max opened the glove compartment. He stuffed his bag full of drugs and money inside. He locked it. Ian took out his last two cigarettes, handed one to Max and lit the other for himself. Both of them were silent. Max started the car and they cut across the parking lot. They ended up behind a very slow moving jeep. “Jesus, go faster,” Max said. There was a pause as the headlights lit the back of the jeep. “I need to find me a cute girl,” Max said. “Me too.” Something happened in the apartment. Something subtle and unspoken passed. Max and Ian had come over to collect some money owed for pot that Max had fronted to Laura’s roommates, Lisa and Nick. The five of them had sat in the living room, Max, Lisa, and Nick sitting on the couches, Laura and Ian standing at the back, about to step outside for a cigarette. The girls were telling Ian and Max about the cats. Both girls were in shorts and tank tops. Both had nice legs and arms. They

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had cute faces. They laughed and moved the way that girls do. Nick kept playing with Lisa’s feet and she kept turning to him, laughing, telling him to stop. Then she turned, saying: “I hate it when people touch my feet.” Their laughter was the laughter of young women. Max’s car rode on the bumper of the slow jeep. They cut through the parking lot. Ian looked at the apartments. All of them had porch lights on. There were a few nice cars parked. Warm air pushed in through the windows. Ian Exhaled a lungful of smoke. “I think that Robin used to live in these apartments,” Ian said. “Um… Robin Gibbons?” Max asked. “Yeah.” “I didn’t know you knew her.” “Yeah I knew her. A long time ago. She doesn’t really talk to me now.” “Why’s that?” The Jeep finally moved. Max sped up to a stop sign. There was one car on the street. It passed quickly. “Well, we got drunk one night and fooled around. I was with Beth at the time. After that, to make things work with her I had to stop talking to Robin,” Ian flicked his tongue down, making a clopping sound, “and that’s how that went.” Max didn’t say anything. He pulled out to the right and drove up the hill through the dark. Street lights floated by like dreams. They drove past the hospital and turned down St. James Street. They pulled up along an Acura Integra. The driver’s arm hung out the window. It was covered in tribal tattoos. He looked over his shoulder at Ian and Max. There was something wrong with things, Ian thought. How did all of this happen? The summer

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had been dry, of rain and of women. Ian shook his head. He admitted to himself, he really knew nothing of women and even wondered if women knew anything about women. Max drove along, the Acura stayed next to them, a little ahead. The driver kept looking over his shoulder at Ian and Max. He turned to his passenger and said something. Then the driver and his friend both glanced over their shoulders at Ian and Max. Ian tried to think about how to explain what he was thinking. Ian looked out the window at the Acura. The man intentionally stayed next to Max’s car. The driver still glanced over his shoulder. It was like that, like the cars, the way that women chose. Max drove a Datsun 280 ZX that had a spray paint finish. It was short, squat looking, and black. The inside was cramped with dingy red upholstery. It wasn’t greatly comfortable to sit in. But the engine was good. The driver was a very polite and kind, the type of guy who shows up at three in the morning to take you away from your apartment when your boyfriend locks you out after a fight. He dressed like a maniac, cargo pants that were cup off at the knee with pajama bottoms coming out underneath. Where as the car next to them was very nice, shiny metallic grey. The inside looked roomy, leather, very comfortable to sit in and you couldn’t hear the engine at all. The guy in the car looked like a “tough guy,” wearing just a white T-shirt, little goatee under the lip and tattoos that said: I want to fit in. And that’s the way that women chose. They would choose the Acura over the Datsun any day, despite who the driver was or what was under the hood. They wanted what was shiny and comfortable and good to be seen with.

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It was the same with men, it didn’t matter what was on the inside. Women wanted what was shiny, comfortable, and good to be seen with. For a second Ian thought maybe he had a nice guys finish last complex. He made a note to be more of an asshole later. But really, Ian didn’t understand. There was something in the way women chose that he didn’t want to understand. It said something ugly about the world that he really didn’t care to know. Ian and Max had been quiet the whole car ride. They even forgot to play music. They only heard the sound of the engine and the night. The guy in the Acura kept along side them. He kept looking over his shoulder then he’d turn and say something to his passenger. The two men would chuckle. Then the guy looked over one last time. Max stepped on the gas. He shifted up a couple of gears. The engine screamed as the Datsun blew through several red lights and up the road, losing the Acura somewhere in the dark. The car floated like clouds in heaven. Then Max slowed down. He came back to the speed limit, down shifted, cruised. The car drifted again through the silence and street lamps.

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a story my mother told me

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My mother used to work at a veterinarianâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s office as a janitor. During his lunch the vet there would go and get really stoned, then he would come back to work. Sometimes he would perform surgeries, there would be

nicked arteries, skewered livers, and poor stitches.

Now this was the seventies and in Houston Texas. Time and place seem to have bearing.

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Although I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really know.

But one day a woman came in with a pregnant dog,

a chow, or lab, or collie, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember.

She wanted the dog spayed.

So the Vet preformed the surgery Then he took the unborn puppies

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and threw them in the trash.

This was a story my mother told me. I think thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a lesson in it somewhere.

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one day I was out driving, it was one of those hot days where your clothes stick to you even though your windows rolled down, the sun was setting. The sky was gold and this song came on the radio. For some reason it made me think of this girl, someone I hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t thought about in quite a while.

When I first met her we were drunk, in my bathroom with the door closed, her sitting on the sink, and me standing between her very nice thighs with my hands on her fishnet stockings, talking. I thought that I should bend down

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and kiss her, but before I could she looked up at me with these sad eyes and this nineteen year old girl told me that she had been getting black out drunk all week and that she always felt like a child. She asked me how she could raise her three year old daughter being like that. Well, I had no answer. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think I said anything at all. Instead of kissing her I backed away, taking my hands off of her fishnet stockings and very nice thighs. We left the bathroom and went out onto my balcony where I put my jacket on her and zipped it up

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then we split a cigarette. My friend took her to bed that night. Sobriety came with the dawn.

And I thought about this as I drove Not having thought about her since that night I thought about this as I walked into my house As I wrote this poem And when Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m done writing this poem

I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think about her again.

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Lines of ink

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It was a party. We made one hundred and eighty dollars. People danced. But none of our old friends showed up. It was just strangers in our household. There were a million cigarettes And a million beers. My ex-girlfriend came, Drunk, Uninvited, Driven by another group of strangers. She punched me in the face And puked on my bathroom floor.

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Then my bicycle got stolen. And one of my roommates almost fucked a seventeen year old girl. Luckily she was â&#x20AC;&#x153;no whore.â&#x20AC;?

And the other fell asleep With someone He was probably starting to fall in love with. As I smoked a cigarette on my patio, Amongst many fallen soldiers, I heard my life bleating like a dying goat. So, being toxic, Haggard, Unemployed,

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And unloved, I came here To this computer, To try and nurse the goat back to health.

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Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sorry

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The sunlight is scattered by the tree. And The shade feels good, laying there with you, although youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re crying. The grass is soft under me, made softer still by the fact that my thoughts are hard and sharp and as scattered as the sunlight. I would like to do the right thing, but by seeing your tears, I realize that I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really know what the right thing to do is.

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Yellow

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The door bell rang and the dog barked. Ian stood back. He stretched his neck and wondered if he could get Lewis to buy him lunch. Minutes passed. No one answered the door. Ian looked in through the glass paneling. He saw Tequila standing at the top of the stairs barking and wagging her tail. He rang the bell again. In the hall something moved. Ian stepped back and ran his hand through his hair. Lewis’s dad opened the door. Tequila wedged passed him. She wagged her tail and looked up at Ian. “Hey, there’s my girl,” he said as he bent down and rubbed her head with both hands, causing hair to float up. The dog perpetually shed. “Lewis is upstairs,” Lewis’s dad said. “Alright, cool.” “You need to get some new clothes.” Ian stepped in. He started going up the stairs, Tequila running up passed him. Ian looked down at himself. He wore his yellow and gray shirt that was too big and frayed at the sleeves and his shoes that were split on the sides. “Yeah, I know. Kinda too short on cash right now to get clothes though. But that’s okay; it keeps me humble and keeps away the average folk.” Lewis’s father raised an eyebrow and smiled. He nodded. Lewis came from a ‘water front’ family, wealthier folk. The house was two stories, always very clean, but the upstairs was always dark. They were new to wealth. His father came from the east and his mother was born in Tijuana. Ian hoped he could someday replicate the success of Lewis’s father. Ian’s stomach growled. He walked down the hall and knocked on Lewis’s door. “Come in,” Ian rubbed Tequila on the head and opened the door. He closed it before the dog could slip in.

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“Dude, why do you always do that?” Ian asked. Lewis sat on the bed, slouched over his laptop, looking very much like a gorilla. He turned and looked at Ian; his small eyes looking out of his portly face, through a pair of small square glasses. “Do what?” Ian set his messenger bag down on the floor. “Let your folks get the door. You knew I was comin. I just called you.” “I was,” Lewis looked from one corner of his eyes to the other then back at Ian, “on my computer.” “Dude, this is why your parents don’t like me.” “My parents like you. It’s no big deal.” “You’re such a lazy ass.” “Whatever.” Lewis looked back at his lap top. Lewis’s room changed very little since they left high school. It contained a TV and Xbox, papers scattered on the floor with dirty laundry, books skewed on the dresser, movies stacked about the window, a pile of many things on one half of the bed, and other random items left laying around. “So how are you?” Lewis asked. Ian picked up a Ninja Turtle toy from the dresser. He fiddled with it. “Other than my powerful lust for tamales, I’m alright. Workin, going to school. Usual shit. You?” Lewis shrugged. “I’m okay, just been sittin at home today.” Ian set the Ninja Turtle down. He reached next to the dresser and picked up Lewis’s eight ball cane. He unscrewed the eight ball from the top, unsheathed the sword piece, then twirled it. “Why do you have to play with everything?” Lewis asked. “What do you mean?” Ian sliced the air with the sword then sheathed it again. He walked to the

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other side of the room and picked up a Spider-Man comic. “You’re a fiddler. You have to play with everything.” Ian put down the comic, “that’s not true. You just have a lot of cool toys, which is kinda weird for a sophomore in college.” Ian started racking the sand in the tiny novelty Zen garden that Lewis kept on the window sill. Lewis shook his head. “So man, you want to get something to eat?” “Nah, I’m good. It’s too early for me to eat.” Ian bit down on his tongue piercing. He reassessed his strategy. “Well what do you want to do man. I kinda feel like going out and enjoyin the town.” “I don’t know. I just think I want to hangout here.” Ian nodded, “that’s cool.” A brief moment of silence passed. Ian patted his hands on his pants. “So how are you?” Lewis asked again. Repeating the question was his way of dealing with silence. “Smackin hoes and drink wine. You know, same shit,” Ian picked up Lewis’s game boy. He popped the cartridge out of the back, “Pokemon. Lame.” He tossed it down. “So I haven’t seen you in like a week and a half, what the hell have you been up to other than goin to school to do the doctor thing? Any crazy adventures?” “Well, let’s see. I have basically been working and preparing to go back to college after spring break. I went to a party with Ralph and have been hanging out with him a bit,” he paused and typed on his computer, “and I got laid.” Ian froze as he reached over to pickup an X-men toy. His mouth fell open. “Really?” “Yes. Don’t look so surprised.”

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Lewis was three hundred and twenty pounds, beady eyed, and had a perpetually red face, which was strange for a Mexican. He looked like a shaved gorilla and rarely left the house. “How? Hasn’t it been like over a year? And who?” “Yeah. It was Lane. She gave me a call the other day and asked if I wanted to come over.” “Oh. Well, congrats, man. How’s her body since she had the kid?” “Boobs are bigger, butts bigger. Has some stretch marks.” “You’re still sure that the kid isn’t yours, right?” “Oh yeah. Last time I slept with her was a good while before she got pregnant,” Lewis said. Ian nodded. “She’s been having problems with her baby’s daddy,” Lewis said. “Her ‘baby’s daddy’? What kind of English is that?” “Standard.” “What trouble is she having?” “I don’t know. He’s a jerk or something. I wasn’t paying attention while she was telling me.” “Aren’t they all? I’m happy for you, congrats. How did it go?” “Her kid was there. She had him in a crib just outside the room. It was weird. I didn’t come.” Ian picked up a Maxim magazine. “Don’t look at that.” “Why?” “Because you’re weird about porn. You look a little too hard at it.” Ian scoffed, “I think it’s meant to be looked really hard at.” “That’s not what she said.” “Funny,” Ian threw down the mag, “so what did you do about the weirdness? I’ve never

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had a chick with a kid.” “Well, I just didn’t come. Eventually she asked me if I was going to and I said no. Then I just kinda left.” “Just walked out?” “I waited for her to get dressed.” Ian’s stomach growled. He looked out the window and back again. “That’s ridiculous.” “Yeah, she still wants to live with me.” “Still? That chick’s a little crazy.” “I’m totally not interested. I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again.” Lewis said. “That’s funny. First time you slept with her you had a crush on her, then the second time you didn’t but she wanted you to move in with her and now you want nothing to do with her. Have you even kissed her yet?” “Yes,” Lewis said pushing up his glasses, “I did finally kiss her this time.” “How do you fuck a chick and not kiss her. That’s just unbelievable.” Lewis shrugged, “I don’t know.” “And that was your first kiss since freshman year in high school wasn’t it?” “How is it that you remember those things? I told you that ages ago.” “What can I say? My mind is an odd creature. It’s like mushrooms. It lives off shit.” Lewis chuckled, “Yeah.” “But sometimes beautiful things come out of it. You’re a weird one though. How do you not kiss a girl the first time you fuck?” “I’m not weird,” Lewis paused, “I just… don’t… kiss. I don’t know. Leave me alone.” Ian laughed. “That’s not funny.”

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“Yes it is.” Ian said, “well at least you avoided the trap.” “Trap?” “Yeah, of moving in with her. A lesser man, more desperate, would have taken that.” “She’s texted me a couple of times about that. I haven’t responded. Don’t think I’m going to.” Ian picked up the eight ball cane again. He tossed it to his other hand then swung it through the air like he was the ring leader of a circus, “Well at least you have a good story you can tell the wife and kids later in life, about the girl you first kissed the third time you fucked her,” Ian smiled and Lewis laughed. But as soon as Ian said those words Lewis’s laughter faded. The room dimmed. It was as if Ian had suddenly ascended a hill, above the mists and could see clearly the bends and sharp curves of a path that lay through a thick maze of trees and rock. He saw his friend, this girl, and their time together. She would call him. He would call her. It would go on that way for a little while yet still. She would want to be with him but he would not want to be with her. Not out of cruelty or disgust or snobbery but because he was smart enough to avoid those trappings of men. The first time they had slept together she didn’t want him but he wanted her. The second time they slept together, she wanted him but he didn’t want her. And the third time they had slept together it was no longer sex but a thing almost like love. Something between love and loneliness perhaps made that way by a kiss. But he wanted her even less. She would go on, raise her child, working different jobs, trying to finish school, being with other men, getting married, getting divorced, having other kids with other men, and eventually growing old. Lewis would go on to become the doctor he was trying so hard to be. Living his life, making his way, until that one day came when he did have a wife, a wife that was not this girl, and children,

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that were not this girl’s children, he would recount the story about the girl he knew and only kissed her the third time they slept together, to someone at some point, maybe not his kids. Then he will wonder what ever happened to her. “You’re doing it again,” Lewis said, shaking his head. Ian snapped his head up. He looked at Lewis, “Doing what?” “That thing you do, where you go off into your own little world and aren’t paying attention.” “Oh sorry,” Ian leaned the eight ball cane against the wall. He looked at the floor for a second then looked up. He smiled a little. For some reason, the smile reminded Lewis of wilted flowers. “I was just thinking about how much I really wanted tamales. Those little wrapped Mexican pieces of heaven are calling to me,” Ian said, “are you sure you don’t want to go eat?” “I’m sure.” Ian paused a moment. “I’m broke and I haven’t eaten in a bit,” he said, “I’ll pay you back when I get paid.” Lewis stared at Ian. “Please. I promise.” Ian said. Outside the wind blew. The willow tree in the backyard swayed. Tequila sniffed around the grass. A car passed. A cloud passed. The trees were green and there was the smell of summer coming in from the east. All the leaves knew it and Ian knew it too. “Fine. I can do that.” Lewis sighed and pushed up his glasses then set his laptop to the side. He bent over the side of the bed, reaching for his shoes. He stopped in mid reach and looked at Ian. “I’m going to have to drive aren’t I?” Ian smiled, “Of course.”

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too many days

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I need some help. I’m floundering here, I’m drowning in smoke. My teeth are bad. My gums hurt. I can’t help but wonder if I appear as lonely as I am. I really need some help, really. I really am drowning. I’m just a mangy stray cat that’s been outside too long. I need somewhere to sleep and someone to sleep with. Warm arms, dear god warm arms. I need clean water and fresh air and a new sky, if only for a day. I’m drowning I really need some help here, really. All the poems are bad and all the metaphors are mixed. I can’t get my lines right. I can’t stretch out the time And all the seconds keep slipping backwards.

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Girl in the Sun

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I’ve seen you standing in hallways and standing on street corners, I’ve seen you dance with fire. And you’ve always seemed real lonely to me,

You care for stray cats and wish on falling leaves and falling stars. You’re the only woman who reads to me And will talk with me on a phone until three AM and leave me love letters in the morning.

Just knowing you’re out there makes the loneliness ebb.

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And

There are times when you talk of impending madness like it is impending darkness,

an eye always over the shoulder, waiting.

So like I said, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve seen you standing in hallways and standing on street corners, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve seen you dance with fire. But these days I see you standing more and more in the dark.

Let me tell you there was a day when I watched you from my kitchen,

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through my front door. Just sitting on the sidewalk and I think, should you find yourself forever lost in that dark, that thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s How Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m going to remember you, on the sidewalk, sitting forever in the sun.

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fragments of nothing

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Poems are hard to write. Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re worthless half thoughts eventually. Like all my good deeds And intentions.

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fear and so many unseen winds

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I was riding the bus the other day. I ride it because Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve spent too much money on cigarettes and fast food and books or various powders, you know. Sometimes I do my best thinking on the bus. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what that says about the quality of my thinking, but there it is. There was an old man on the bus. He was thin; veins bulged and were purple along his hands. He was bald and could barely hold the bag he was carrying.

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He clung to it like a child might cling to a blanket at night when the shadows creep in to get him. And he shook. Tremors. The tendons in his neck stood out. He couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sit still at all. As soon as he started to settle, the tremors would start again. He had a thick black mustache and brown eyes. Around his neck was a bus pass in a laminated case. I watched him for three stops, then as we climbed the hill I looked out the window, past the trees that were only barely touched by spring and I could see the river and the airport

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and all the sky beyond and I wondered if this old man, when he was my age, thought he would be riding the bus when he was his age.

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Leslie Ann

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i watch her hands, sometimes, when sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not looking,

her hands and her wrists.

i watch as the fingers pull thoughtlessly at her coatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s zipper when she laughs.

i daydream as they push the hair back, out of her face.

and wonder if those hands are soft as they remove a cigarette from the pack and light it.

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they don’t seem like hands that should belong to her. she’s young and those hands seem like the sure hands of a much older woman.

there’s a scar on one thumb and a ring on her middle finger.

i contemplate and dream from the fair tips of her fingers to the perilous curves of her wrists.

and just her wrists can fill me with a sensation i don’t know how to describe.

call it what you will.

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but I do know this.

that this feeling is all together everything.

itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s something,

that swims in the dark like sharks in the ocean.

itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the difference between

a wrist and Her Wrist.

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Eyes of endless night

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Five friends smoking in the dark Five friends talking about nothing Like five points on a star And just as beautiful on a random Lonely night

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ring tone

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Silent cell phone. No Love. Technology sucks.

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savior

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I walk in dreams and breathe only smoke

And waking into a place Where the clocks ring Success or failure where love plays second fiddle and looking into a mirror I see less than what is there

Is to make an ordinary nightmare

Something you see in the broad Light of day So I walk in the rain And learn to dream With eyes wide open.

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red

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Alice sat straight up. Her eyes got bright. “I know you’ve already seen it, but would you like to go see it with me again?” she asked. “Yeah, I’d love to see a movie with you,” Ian said. Then Alice slumped down, looked to the right, towards the floor, “wait, maybe we should go see it in a group. I know that Sam wanted to go see it.” That’s how Ian figured out Sam was her boyfriend’s name. Something twitched inside him. They sat in Ian’s room, on the floor, cross legged. A chair sat between them. On the chair sat two shot glasses. Ian reached down to his side, for the rum. He poured the second set of shots. Alice was about five three. She had black hair and strange green eyes, just enough extra weight to be nicely curvy, and a septum piercing. She had a tattoo of an elephant on one shoulder with its snout pointing up. Black birds flew out of the nose. The birds floated up her shoulder and one side of her neck, to her ear. On the other side of her neck and shoulder was a large burn scar. “Geez, another shot?” Alice said. “We can wait.” “No, fuck it. Where’s the chaser?” Ian set the rum down. He reached to the other side of the chair. “Here you go,” he handed her the glass of orange juice. Alice picked up her shot glass. Ian picked up his. They clinked them together. Ian drank his. Alice took a drink of the orange juice and then drank her shot. She took another drink of the orange

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juice then handed Ian the glass. He took a sip. “How long have you been with your boyfriend?” Ian asked. “A few months.” “How’s that workin out for you?” Alice shrugged, “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about breaking up with him.” “Yeah?” Alice reached for the bottle of rum. She poured them another set of shots. “He doesn’t ever seem to want to see me and he doesn’t have a job.” “Sounds like a lot of guys,” Ian said. Something inside him twitched again. They took their shots. Alice drank the orange juice then handed it to Ian. Ian sipped it. “He’s also atheist, which bothers me. Do you believe in God?” “In my way,” Ian said. Ian leaned back a little. He looked at Alice. She looked like she had soft cheeks and nice lips. He wondered if something would happen, if they kept drinking the way they did. He sat, thinking of how. “Here, look at this,” Ian said. He got up, went to his TV. He took a little green book off of it. It was the New Testament, Psalms and Proverbs. “Sometimes when I’m a little down and out I look through this. It lists the passages for help, for things like loneliness and depression.” He handed it to Alice. “Unfortunately there’s nothing in there about regret.” Alice thumbed through the little book. “I have one of these. It’s bigger though,” she said, “and it has regret in it.” “So what’s your religion, like religious background?”

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“Catholic, but that’s not what I am. I don’t really have a set religion thing.” Alice set the book down on the floor. They took two more shots. Alice told Ian about the birthday party for her nephew she had been to earlier that day, and the movies she liked. The two of them took another shot. They talked about books and movies based on books. Alice moved over to Ian’s bookshelf. “There are very few movies that are as good or better than the books their based on,” Ian said, “I can only really think of three: Silence of the Lambs, Fight Club, and Interview with the Vampire. And also the nineteen-forty-five movie The Picture of Dorian Grey, that’s better than the book.” “Interview with the Vampire was based on a book?” Alice asked. “Yeah, by Anne Rice.” “Who’s Anne Rice?” Ian tilted his head. “Anne Rice writes the vampire chronicles.” “Never heard of them.” “Okay, come here.” Alice scooted even closer, almost up against Ian. Out of the corner of his eye Ian could see how she crossed her legs and how the curve of her thigh changed into the curve of her hip. He imagined inching her pants down around that curve. When he thought this there was a tugging somewhere intangible, like on the collar of some unknown part of his mind or heart or soul. “The Vampire chronicles are just a series of vampire books,” Ian said pulling the book Interview with the Vampire off the shelf, “the movie Queen of the Damned is also based on one of her books but it isn’t as good.” Ian went on talking about the series then he loaned Alice the book Interview with the Vampire.

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“Really?” Alice asked. “Yeah, just take care of it.” “Thank you.” “Anne Rice describes things really well. You’ll like her.” Alice flipped through the book. “When I was a little girl I would sit in my room,” Alice said, glancing from the book to Ian, “and I would read and just eat ice chips.” She motioned with her hands like she was taking ice from a cup and putting them to her lips. Ian could easily see a younger Alice, sitting in her bedroom, underneath a window, light coming in behind her as she read her book and ate those ice chips. They both took two more shots then got out the wine. They passed the bottle back and forth. They talked about parents, drugs, her needing to sell her car, people that they knew mutually, getting drunker and drunker as they went. “Want to hear some poems?” Ian said sitting down on the bed next to Alice. “Sure,” Alice took a hit from the wine bottle. She spilled a little on her shirt. Ian reached over to his night stand. He pulled some of his poems off. He flipped through them. Alice shifted around on the bed. She crossed her legs. Ian used her knee as an arm rest. He leaned over to her. She leaned back onto her arms. Ian read her the poems Abigail; there was a girl’s name here, it’s gone now; a love poem in disguise; revelations; the only one who pays me to write; and no more titles. As Ian read, Alice sat up. She leaned against him, hugging his arm, and resting her head on his shoulder. Ian thought about ear lobes and hips. He thought about deep kisses and chewing on her neck. He thought about being tangled in blankets and arms and legs. He could have leaned in and kissed her

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then. But instead he read her a few more poems. “I need to pee,” Alice said, “where’s your bathroom?” “Mine is right there, through that door. I have my own bathroom,” Ian smiled. “Lucky you,” Alice got up. She stepped off the bed. She crept like a cartoon character trying to be sneaky, all on tip toe. Ian laughed. Alice shut the door. Ian sat and waited. He snuck himself another shot. Then Alice opened the door. “How do you flush this thing?” She asked. Ian got up and went into the bathroom. “It’s broken. You have to open the back of the toilet and pull the plug.” Ian did just that. The toilet flushed. “You have a lot of writing on your walls,” Alice said. Ian put the lid of the tank back down. He turned. “Yeah, I took some acid one night and I needed more and more enclosed spaces. The bathroom was the smallest place I could find. So I just ended up in here writing on the walls for hours. After that whenever someone uses my bathroom they write on the walls.” The bathroom was covered in writing, all of the walls. Things were written upside down, sideways, slantways, in paragraphs, stanzas, zigzags, and backwards, so they could be read forward in the mirror. “Do you have a marker?” Alice asked. “I used to keep one in here,” Ian said, “let me find one.” He stepped out of the bathroom and took a marker from the cup of pens next to his computer. “Here,” he said, stepping back in. Alice took the marker. She started writing on the wall.

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Her hand writing was drunken and a little unreadable. When she was done she capped the pen and set in on the bathroom counter. “Read it back to me,” Ian said. Alice swayed a little. “This only the bitter sweet, the words, the kindly things, a simple cure for the need to feel needed,” Alice stood there. She looked at what she wrote. “Do you not feel needed?” Ian asked. He stood in the doorway. “Let’s have some more wine,” Alice said. They went back and sat on the bed. Alice poured another glass of wine. When did we get a glass? Ian thought. Alice reached into her purse. She pulled out a long strand of some type of ribbon. It was yellow with small white polka-dots. “Could you wrap this around my wrist?” Alice asked handing Ian the ribbon. “Um… sure,” Ian stumbled onto his knees. He took Alice’s wrist then tried to wrap the long ribbon around it. It got tangled and twisted. Ian straightened it. He let his fingers linger on the curl of her wrist as he wrapped the ribbon around. He wondered about how many wrists went uncaressed. As Ian worked Alice leaned forward against him. She let her head rest on his shoulder. It was very quiet and in that quiet Ian thought about fingers sliding through hair and the feeling of inner thighs. He thought about kissing her, sliding one hand up to a soft cheek until his fingers lingered in her hair. All he had to do was turn his head. But instead he sat back on the floor, wondering why. “Thank you,” Alice said softly. “You’re welcome,” Ian said, “Would you like a cigarette?” “Can we smoke in here?”

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“Sure, it’s my room.” Ian took a pack of cigarettes off the night stand. He took one out and handed it to Alice. “We’ll split this,” He said. She said okay. Ian lit the cigarette and took a drag, then he passed it to Alice. She took it between her fingers, brought it to her lips. Ian watched and contemplated those lips. His eyes moved along the curve of her cheek, down the line of her neck to her scar. The scar was a large patch work of melted flesh, pink and twisted. “I like your scar. I think it sets you apart, gives you some character,” Ian said. “Thank you,” “Did it hurt when it happened?” “I don’t know. I was drunk and then I blacked out. I woke up in the hospital after that. It hurt after that.” “This may sound like a weird question, but could I touch it?” Ian asked. Alice looked up at him. “Sure,” she said. Ian got up and moved over toward the bed. He sat down right next to her, turned towards her. He pulled the collar of her shirt back. She tilted her head to the left a little, looking down, strands of hair falling around her face. Ian ran the back of a single finger over the scar. He ran it up the scar then down then over the part that draped her collar bone. He took a finger up along her neck. The scar felt like candle wax that had melted and hardened again. Ian ran the tip of his finger across the whole of it. He saw out of the corner of his eye, Alice. She bit down on her bottom lip then slowly pulled it out from between her teeth. In that instant Ian could imagine kissing her, biting down on her neck, she, pulling his hair, lifting off her shirt, tearing off his pants, breasts, bitten nipples, wetness, the way a

Kirby Light

pussy tastes, the feel of lips come off the head of his cock, tight pussy, the way an ass can sometimes ripple when fucking a girl from behind, moans and sweat, and coming inside her, for hours at a time. And Ian saw all of this in the slow way she pulled her lip out from between her teeth. Yet for some reason, there was that twitch in him again, that odd pulling on his invisible collar. Then something grey inside him whispered soft words at the back of his head, something small that he could hardly hear. You will never again know innocent love, the voice said. Ian looked down at the floor. He slid away from Alice. He sat cross legged on the floor. Alice looked at him. She picked up the glass of wine and took a drink. “So, what does it feel like?” Alice asked putting the glass back down. “I don’t know. It feels hard, but not. It feels like candle wax that has melted and hardened again,” Ian said. “I like that you asked to touch it. Most people are afraid of it.” Ian shrugged. “I’m not afraid of much, I guess,” he said. Alice and Ian finished the glass of wine, passing it back and forth. They talked about family and drugs and writing. They talked about raves, where they traveled to, and other things that fade out of later memory when spoken in the haze of a heavy drunk. Around two in the morning Alice said she had to go. “Are you okay to drive?” Ian asked. Alice swayed and looked at Ian with half open eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Positive?” Ian leaned forward. He put his forehead on her knee. “I think you’re more drunker than I am,” Alice said.

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“There’s a couch in there that you can sleep on.” “Nah, I’m good. I drive drunk all the time.” “Okay,” Ian said. The two of them walked through the dark house, to the front door. Ian opened it for Alice. They both stepped out onto the front walk way. Alice rummaged through her purse. “Okay,” Alice said. She stuck her arms out. They hugged. They drunkenly swayed in their embrace. And then they parted. “Goodnight.” “Goodnight.” Alice turned and walked to her car. She did her drunken creep walk down the driveway. Ian crossed his arms, leaned against the wall of the garage. Alice got into her car and started it. Ian watched her drive off down the street. He stood for a few minutes under his porch light, looking at the neighborhood. He was glad Alice had a good time, but the words still lingered in his head. You will never again know innocent love. Quiet was the night and orange from the street lights. There was no wind. Ian stood trying to think of nothing, then, he turned and went back into the dark house, shutting the front door behind him.

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a fable yo

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So this spider built his house safely by the ceiling. A board came loose and this girl tried to help him fix it, but she destroyed it instead. So Then the cocky fucker went and built his house right in front of the fucking couch. Well, It got destroyed there too. Then, depressed and broke, he built it low to the ground but I ended up walking through it. His house was destroyed three times, so finally he built his house safely in the trees. After that

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he went out and found himself a nice fat lady spider. He made love to her all day and then

she ate him alive.

Guys got it ruff everywhere.

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an island

Brief Lives Filled with tiny magic People out there With love and smiles Waiting for the last Stars to drop below The eye As the street lights pass Above On an empty street And the only footsteps Are my own

Then

I can feel it That thing That says That Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m alone.

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at the end of the day, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll just be you and i that care

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There are moments that come. Perfect moments. So good that when they happen everything else sort of slides away, the past and the future, moments so great that all the good and the bad become one and everything that’s happened is okay because it was worth it, because it lead to the that moment. Well sometimes people are like that. So don’t be upset when you think about all of these things that you think you are. If you hadn’t done these things you wouldn’t be the girl I’m so fond of.

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She’s kooky, she’s corky, she’s kinky. She talks only in whispers And she struts like a sunny day in December, with a glace of her eyes she could topple stars you know, she’s that type of girl that walks along sidewalks in sun dresses and you go on remembering her for years,

wondering where her long tanned legs had taken her.

She’ll dance and play with your hair and she’ll drink you under the table. She’ll smoke cigarettes all

night

long

and she’ll laugh at you in all the right ways.

but she doesn’t swallow. I guess nobody’s perfect.

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she said i walked around, righteous

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They’ve tried to take it from me. Even though they don’t know what it is they try to take it. They’ve tried many times. They wonder why I get to walk free from my cage. They all look at me with the same vicious eyes and I know I’m in trouble. I almost shit myself,

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every time. Already I’ve had my teeth busted out, my ribs snapped, my eyes blackened and all my fingers broken. They’ve worn down my mind to just the fragments of a library. But they’ll never get it from me. It’s mine. My little warm ball of light. I hold it close, clasped between the palms of my hands and I look at it

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through my mangled fingers. I see it shining there and I smile.

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English Lesson

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You don’t Do drugs. You use drugs Or you enjoy drugs.

Everyone’s on drugs. Drug is a broad term.

See, you smoke pot You’re never on weed

You snort coke You snort Ketamine You snort Molly and X Or you rail it You never Do them though.

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You eat pills And shoot up heroin Unless youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re slammin it Or smoking it. Same for opium, I guess You never Do them though

Drop acid Fry Dose Eat peyote Eat mushrooms Go shroomin Trip But you never Do them.

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And Meth Well Fuck that

The only things you Do Are Lines And Bitches

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Dust

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I thought about the one in the black and pink bikini and the one in the tie dye bikini whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes were hidden behind sun glasses for the full ten minutes I knew her. I thought about the one at work with the curly black hair and nice ass. I thought about the one I should have given flowers to. I thought about the one I missed at the bar and the one I wish I had talked to at the party.

I thought about the one with brown eyes that would twirl her hair around a finger when she talked to me.

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I thought about the one that went to bed with my friend the other night. I thought about the one that I kissed on a couch.

I thought about warm skin and legs and fading faces covered by hair. Little noises in the dark and the curving of spines, soft lights on lips and the taste of ear lobes.

Sweat, endless seas of sweat that smelt like the rain and felt just as refreshing.

And after my finest moment I was alone in my shower again. Just me and God

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and the terrifying fact that my whole life is nothing

but wasted love and wasted time.

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Black

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Ian was panicked. He paced around his bedroom and then out into the hall and then into the kitchen and back again. The kitchen was dark. There was a hum and grind noise coming from the spinning disco ball that hung from the chandelier. The only light came through his bedroom doorway. As he paced he caught his reflection in the window above the kitchen sink. Earlier in the evening Ian had woken up to an empty quiet house, strange for a Saturday night. Max was gone, But Daniel was there. Ian knocked on his door. Daniel told him to come in. “Where’s Max and Lawrence?” Ian asked. “I don’t know where Max is. Lawrence is hanging out with a friend tonight.” Daniel said. “Oh, well what are you doing?” “I’m just going to watch a movie and probably go to sleep.” Ian wandered around the house and then started to write. Then Laura sent him a text asking what he was doing. He said he was doing nothing and Laura came over after that. She came over with a bottle of wine and stir fry. As the food cooked they went out onto the patio. “So I haven’t heard from Chris in three days. I haven’t seen him in a week.” Laura said as they split a cigarette. “I’ve actually been pretty miserable lately.” They passed the cigarette back and forth until it was gone. They went inside and Laura took two bowls from the dishwasher, two forks, and poured two glasses of wine. They went into Ian’s bedroom and ate their stir fry and drank the wine. Laura sat on the floor and Ian sat at his desk. “Would it weird you out if I said you were one of my best guy friends?” Laura asked him. “No,” Ian said. He looked at her. She looked very sad. “You’re one of my best friends. Why am I one of your best guy friends?”

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“You’re the only one that understands me.” She said. They sat and ate their stir fry and they drank wine and tried to watch the movie Factotum. Laura texted on her phone here and there. Ian sat and thought about this. He tried to focus on the movie, but he couldn’t stop thinking, of things to say and not say, he thought that he needed to do his homework, finish his book, work out, stop drinking. He couldn’t remember the last time he had sex where he wasn’t drinking or putting something up his nose. But more than anything at that moment, he thought about things to say and not to say. They got twenty or so minutes into the movie when the door bell rang. Ian rose. Laura looked up at Ian from the floor. “Was that the door bell?” She asked very quietly and very sad. “Yeah,” Ian said, “I’ll be back in a sec.” Ian walked through his dark house and answered the front door. Chris stood there. He looked up. “S’up,” Chris said. “Yo. Come on in.” Chris stepped in. “I just came to have a cigarette with Laura,” he said. He sounded a little tired. The two walked back to the bed room. Laura already had two cigarettes out. “Hey babe, can I get that cigarette?” Chris asked. Laura and Chris silently went out of the bedroom. Ian sat at his computer, not joining them, letting them have their alone time. He started to work on his book again. Then he got up and took his dishes to the kitchen. He placed them on the counter and glanced out the patio door. He noticed that Chris was sitting in the recliner there and not on the love seat with Laura. He couldn’t help but shake his head to himself. Ian went back to his room and got back to work on his book. He typed for fifteen minutes, putting poems and stories together, making corrections and editing. Then Laura and Chris came back in. Laura was

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smiling. Chris looked tired and not amused. “Hey, I think we’re going to get going,” Laura said. Ian wasn’t surprised. “Ian took me to a poetry reading, baby,” Laura said to Chris, “it was fun. We listened to an old guy talk about his dick.” Laura talked and seemed a little tipsy. “Yeah it was fun, thanks for going with me,” Ian said. “I want to go to it again when it happens,” Laura went over picked up her purse, she put her phone in it and searched for her keys. “And last night me and Lisa came over and got really drunk. I was going out and she was all like: I don’t want to be left at home with Nick, can I come?” Ian wondered if Laura was going to mention that her and Lisa had pinched his nipples and that he and Laura had danced. She didn’t. Chris just stood there looking very tired. “I hope you get some sleep, man,” Ian said to him. “Oh, I’m not tired, I’m good. Got eight full hours last night. Then I woke up, played some HON,” Chris said smiling and pretending that he was typing on a keyboard. “Okay, I’m ready,” Laura said as she stuffed her bottle of wine in her purse. She had a big purse. She gave Ian a hug and then her and Chris left. Ian did not show them to the door. He sat and stared at the floor for a minute. Then Ian was completely alone. He paced around a bit. The house was very quiet. Every room but his own was dark. He Sent a text to Alice, but got no reply. He thought about sending text to Claire, but didn’t. He thought about sending one to Julia, who he hadn’t seen in a few weeks, but didn’t do that either.

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Ian went to his bedroom and decided to just go back to work on his book. It was almost done. Maybe four thousand more words. He went into the music library on his computer, went into the perfect circle file, and just pushed play. Ian wrote. He compiled poems, the short stories, the little quotes and bits. He rewrote and rewrote again. He would give Laura a copy to edit when it was done. He’d give her a bottle of wine and a pack of Marlboro smoothes to help the editing process. Ian finished one story and then started into doing a little rewrite on the first part of the book. He got the end of the first story and wrote the lines it started with writer’s block and a dream about a girl and it was then that he started to panic. Almost three in the morning and a lightning bolt went through his body. “Oh no,” Ian said shaking his head. He sighed heavily and wished he had a cigarette. Ian took his fingers off the keyboard. He stood up and paced around his room, then from the bedroom to the hall to the kitchen and back again. He paced for two hours. The music from his computer looped again and again. Panic, as pure as hate and pain. Ian had started the book with Claire and knowing what he knew of writing he would have to end the book with Claire, resolution of conflict. But Ian realized he hadn’t put her in the book anywhere. He hadn’t put her in it physically or given her words or motion or anything. He didn’t even write about when they had started talking again or the time they had been spending together. She was left as just a hidden muse in the dim morning light of the reader’s mind. Although she had come back into Ian’s life there still was no resolution of conflict between them and so much of the book was based on reality that there could be no end to the book. Ian paced around the house in the dark. He thought that maybe he could make something up, completely fiction, something where they were subtly talking about some serious subject of importance pertaining to the two of them but really talking about something ever larger, some statement about humanity.

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Ian sat at his computer. He shook his head. “No, no,” he said, “that would be a dishonest lie.” But it was important that there be an end to the book. It was important to reveal her. Show them. Show them the way she crossed her legs, the way she talked, smelled, laughed, the curve of her. It was important to Ian and unfair to the reader, and to her, to just leave her as a ghost. Ian got back up and paced around again. It was either tell an ugly lie or to wait and maybe leave the book unfinished, maybe indefinitely. And that was just no good. Ian stopped and stood in the hall, facing the kitchen, watching. The song Passive began to play. To Hell with it, Ian thought, to hell with it all, to hell with school, to hell with work, to hell with money, to hell with Claire, to hell with Alice and Laura and Sandra and Robin and Michelle, to hell with friends, to hell with the end of the book, to hell with trying to be sober. Maybe the book was about something else, something he hadn’t figured out yet, maybe something that he might never figure out. All pretentious self indulgent bullshit, Ian thought, to hell with the truth, to hell with women who want to be fucked, to hell with women who want to go slow, to hell with women who want attention, to hell with being a good person, to hell with getting in shape, to hell with sober sex and emotional intelligence, to hell with the things she says at three in the morning. To hell with it. The house was very quiet and very still. There was only the slow rotating of the disco ball hanging from the chandelier in the kitchen and the soft grinding noise it made. The wind blew a little outside. Leaves ruffled in it. Ian stood in the hall, just barely outside of the light coming from of his bedroom. He stood, tired, passive, and alone, staring at the dark reflection of himself in the window above the kitchen sink.

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into the deep end

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People get quiet around me and I don’t know why. I’m just too far out of things aren’t I? My nose is blistered and scabbed and my face is peeling, both from sun burn. I’m wearing my purple shirt, the one with the holes and frayed bottom. My friend told me that I smelt like two camels fucking in a musty basement. People get quiet around me and I don’t know why, but I’m quiet too.

And no one ever asks me why.

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where i stand, when iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m as lonely as the last living leaf of fall

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I stand outside at night. Street lights make my patio orange. Through the glass door I see my roommate kiss his boyfriend. I turn and a mouse runs out from under my couch and back again. There is no breeze, just quiet, small miracles

only I see

from my little place in the universe.

I stand outside at night, alone, smoking a cigarette and I look up into the sky. The city makes the few clouds orange.

Am I the only one who still wishes on stars?

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god must surely chuckle every day

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There’s a crow on top of the hospital. He’s the only bird out. I smoke a cigarette and watch him up there. The sun is coming up. But there are clouds and it’s cold. People dressed in scrubs flow into the hospital and people dressed in scrubs flow out of the hospital as time eases towards the end of night shift and the start of day shift.

Some of the people are a little fearful that they may lose their jobs, others having been there too long to think their jobs could be lost.

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They come in with cigarettes and coffee and books and pills, prepared to bleed more days together and then when they leave theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll go home to their TVs

and kids and houses and husbands or wives, bleeding even more days together.

They go on like that for a while.

I finish my cigarette, put it out, Wipe the ashes from my scrubs. As I walk across the parking lot I can hear the crow on top of the hospital.

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Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cawing. Then he flies off. The cawing disappears somewhere down the road.

It sounded something like laughter.

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The only one who pays me to write.

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At work there’s often down time.

“I have to keep busy. It makes the day go so much faster,” my co-worker says.

Well twelve hours is twelve hours no matter what you do and there are better ways to spend extra time than to do other people’s extra work.

You see there used to be this guy and they called him the man and everybody was trying to stick it to him.

Not enough people seem to do that anymore.

So instead of working I stick it to the man. I find a quiet place and let him pay me to write bad poetry.

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revelations

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“Can I buy a cigarette from you?” “Sorry.” “Can I get a couple of drags off that?” “Sure.” “Can I also get a couple of drags off that?” “Sure.” “Like fuckin vultures.” “It looks dead, get it.” “You know you could just give me thirty bucks And I can get you a carton of Sonoma’s at the Military base.” “Yeah, you can’t buy cigarettes online anymore.” “You can’t.” “Smoking Sonoma’s always makes me feel bad About myself though.” “You know what? Me too.”

To think all this time, it was the Cigarettes.

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a mad hatter

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I talked to no one during high school but I took this creative writing class. One requirement to pass was to attend the class reading. It was held at a shop that served tea. I went, never having talked to anyone. Being alone and quiet. Everyone clapped politely When it was time And talked among themselves While people read. I went up to the microphone when it was my turn. Each step echoed. People stared. I adjusted the mike until it was right, then I pulled the paper out of my pocket. Each noise was as loud as the neighbors having sex. I read. It was a story 141

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about a man who killed people and built their parts into objects

like furniture and kitchen utensils

and then sold them in a shop. It ended in a joke, about needing to be rich because everything cost an arm and a leg.

Well, everyone laughed. And they laughed loud.

A week later in class we had a private showing. People laid out some of their writing on their desks and walked around reading. I had no writing to display, I had nothing I wanted anyone to read.

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and been valedictorian, I think, came up to me. She put a hand on my bicep and said:

“Where’s your writing?”

“I don’t have any to show.” I said.

“Oh, I wanted to read more of what you write.”

Then she let her hand slowly slide down my arm to my elbow. And she walked away. That was the first time I ever realized the power I had.

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some men really earn their age

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This guy’s been married four times. Christ can you believe it? four times.

He’s graying and he smokes cigarettes at our smoke shack at work. he sits slumped over and quiet. He’s been married four times and is probably close to fifty if not older. He speaks with a soft southern accent and has an ear ring.

He’s been married four times god damn it! Think about it. That man has endurance or shit for brains.

He’s been married four times and his second wife told his kids he was a cheat so they don’t talk to him anymore. He’s been married four times and just got married again.

Five separate occasions.

Where are all the other people Who still believe in Love?

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do you get it yet?

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So I asked my co-worker: “How do you become a good person?” And she said: “Pull you’re weight and work hard.” So I asked a patient: “How do you become a good person?” and he said: “Let me go home.” So I asked my father: “How do you become a good person?” and he said: “Get a nice girl and have me some grandkids.” So I asked a hippie: “How do I become a good person?” and she said: “Load a bowl?”

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So I asked the hospital priest: “How do I become a good person?” and he said: “Follow God and live your life for him.” So I asked a lover: “How do I become a good person?” And she said: “Just stay here with me in bed and never leave.”

Well after a long day, exhausted and tired I went to my sister’s apartment. I sat in a chair in the living room while her boyfriend watched TV and she cooked.

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Their old dog came up to me and rested his head in my lap. I rubbed his face and asked him: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Do you know how to become a good person?â&#x20AC;? and he looked up at me

and then

licked my face. I thought that was a pretty good answer.

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time and all its heart aches

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I tried to buy wine and Avocados at five-thirty in the morning, but they couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sell alcohol until six.

So I bought wine and avocados at six in the morning. I buy avocados because they taste good Sliced and put on tuna fish sandwiches.

I bought wine

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and avocados at six in the morning. The avocados are the dinky Small American ones. Have you seen them in other countries? Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re the size of foot balls.

I bought wine and avocados at six in the morning. I bought the avocados

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because I was hungry and wanted a tuna fish sandwich with avocados on it.

I bought the wine because an old love has a new man.

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she taught me useless things about loss and reason when she talked of homelessness and love

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Ungrounded is the word. It’s the smell of fresh cut grass and Sunday morning. It twirls in the air, just like pollen, that tells me it’s spring. It’s leaves that float down rivers, as adrift and lonely as lost lovers. Sometimes I long for the feeling

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of floating and fear.

Lost and wandering are as unknown to me as nebulas, as I am always tethered to the ground, always protected by words.

They are my north star. They are my

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map, my compass. They are the arms that hold me on lonely nights.

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in the city of rain and roses

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We pass under bridges in the dark, where men walk with women alone. There’s a fat beat and cigarettes and smoke and I’m again going into Portland with Kaine. The people in cars don’t know we’re there and the people passing in the max trains don’t know either, but the night is young and so are the ladies. The only real tragedy about the evening is that you can’t capture a fat beat in a poem.

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a worthless and boring poem that I only wrote because of sisters

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If you look right, you can find the beauty.

If you look right.

If you turn your head at the right moment and catch the sun coming through clouds. If you stare at a fire during a camping trip and are the only one awake to see it, where stars shine like untouched eyes,

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if you can see that sisters are different, where one is calmer and quieter than the other, yet you see that they laugh the same, then you got something there, in you, that most others don’t have.

And that’s where the beauty really lays, the magic, the resonance.

Now that’s beauty. That thing in you that causes you to see, really see. It’s something special.

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Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s easy to do, all you need is a bit of mind and a bit of soul and enough luck to turn and look at the right moment.

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Gas to the fire, sun to the rose, fingers to the hip, and on it goes. . .

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The cruel or thoughtless deeds of indifferent women; they are my missing wine, empty cigarette boxes on my coffee table. They are the city lights that steal my starry nights, as well as what compels my every turning page.

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sleeping off to the side

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There is no togetherness in this. So many people perpetually caught in the rain and therefore are the rain. You and I are just separate drops.

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a poem written too soon

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I’ve often joked that I’ve already got a condo in Hell. In seriousness I think about this. I know when I make that long descent what really waits for me at the bottom. You see Tonight I put flowers on a girl’s car, where I work. I’ve kissed her before, chewed her ear lobe and made her moan. But I know

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that right now those flowers,

which were cut from my father’s garden,

are laying on the asphalt Thrown there in disgust and when I’m done here in the gym I’m going to go up there and look and know this to be true.

What waits for me in Hell is the endless rewatching

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of my life, how close I came to tasting the sweetest fruits and how I chose to continuously plummet from the trees.

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a thing you learn when you sleep in your car

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Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll bleed, for all the wrong reasons. I promise you that. It will come trembling out of every wound, out of every hole, eyes will spew it like tears. Most people try to stop it with any bandage they can find, be it the arms of another, or drugs, or the drink. But they and you will bleed again and again and again, for what will seem like forever.

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It will coat your whole world in red.

But let yourself bleed a little, trust me, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be like the others, let yourself bleed until one night youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re alone, too sad and terrified and tired and then suddenly it will stop. All on its own. Then from those same bleeding wounds will burst endless seas of flame and smoke. You will bellow smoke and fire. After that

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you will be a shining light in a crimson world. I promise you that too. It just takes time

and a lot of blood.

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another poem for a girl

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There was this woman and we were together for five years. And this woman had these eyes,

you see,

they were big and they were blue. And yellow was there. If you looked close enough you could see that there were also strands of red and hazel weaved between those warm threads of blue.

When the light hit them just right you could see a sunrise in the middle of the night.

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Now, I never wanted kids. I never wanted to force someone else to muddle through the absurdity of what this is.

But that changed like the weight of wine jugs, when that woman turned her eyes, would laugh and throw her arms around me.

Do you believe you could kill someone that never existed?

I imagined this little girl, A daughter A little girl with this womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes and blonde curly hair with this womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s laugh, only the laugh was smaller. I named her Maria.

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And she was a happy weight I would carry on my shoulders on sunny days, so she could reach the tops of trees.

But the love I had with this woman is gone and so is the woman.

Do you think that you could kill someone that has never existed?

That little girl may have only existed in a dream, but she is as dead as autumn leaves. And I mourn just the same.

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do you know what Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m writing about?

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I came home and my father sat quietly before the window, greyer, older. Where I used to sit and look out the same window, when we were both younger, when I was alone and he was all rage and fire and terror. Back

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when he would scream and drag people across the floor by their hair and be the nightmare in the day. I spent much time Looking out that window.

Now he sits in front of that window, 50, on some days barely able to walk, with a dying wife and children

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who don’t love him and he just looks and waits. It’s one of the few things we share. We both know all too well what’s out that window.

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when every passing name is written

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At this camp ground there’s this shit house. And it smells just like a shit house in the hot sun and there are flies everywhere.

People have written many things on the walls, about trips, travel, and dirty limericks. But someone has written

“Jonathan, I’ll love you forever.”

And I can’t fathom why anyone would write that there, on a shit house wall.

The only thing I can think to write There are a few lines of bad poetry and maybe my name. As that’s where my name Should be written. 185

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the tricks I play on myself

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I could hear her flip flops in the distance, in the dark,

flop flop flop.

She walked across the field, from where we had just had sex, walking in the opposite direction as I, As always. And then she stopped and we watched each other.

Just standing there.

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She was not Who I wanted to fuck that night. Who I wanted to fuck was out fucking someone else. I settled on her because I

Needed.

no one was with anyone they wanted to be with that night Just like every other night.

We both started walking away in the dark.

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I shouted to her: “When are you going to learn?” And she shouted back: “You’re going to be alone forever.”

And the forever echoed.

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not as a friend

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There will come a day, in the very near future, when I hold the world in my hand. I will look at all the women that I could have been with, Really loved, and I will thank God that they never wanted me.

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I met her in a bar

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Love is always cheap. Bottom shelf liquor can be used to create it, or kill it. And not surprisingly Any bottom shelf liquor is far more efficient than romance. Sad to say Most love Runs dry Like shot glasses.

Always and forever.

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bitter, sometimes

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Every day thousands of women are disregarded, ignored, tossed around or out, like so much household garbage and late at night Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll get a text from a girl who Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m halfway in love with yet hardly hear from, asking me to get her blow and all those tossed women get no sympathy from me. Women sometimes, at best, are just something good to write about.

Eve defied God and caused Adam to be exiled and blamed the devil for it all.

The truth is, that there was no snake upon the ground, the snake was in the woman.

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Baby Doll

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There is this girl I know. She is the color of October.

To her I am like the cigarette smoke of a stranger, something you sometimes have to walk through and sometimes need to wave away with a hand.

I know another girl who twirls around in the rain and her hair is as black as a crow. She says that crows are her children. Well the crow is the hunger of the sky

and she is the hunger of the eye.

The world, it just comes after you, Without remorse

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It just comes

There is no real escape Eventually it takes And everyone gets to be just like everyone Else In the end Always in the end.

Why can’t I just find some way out of this I’ll take anything At all.

She was right The grass isn’t greener We are just fated To move across the fence Out of illusion

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I am sad every day that you are not here And I don’t get to wake up to you.

Dev

The walls of my bedroom weren’t strong enough The world still broke in and got us Didn’t it?

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Ends and Beginnings

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Freshmen Teachers Writing Readings

It’s strange where you can Find the Past

And Kaine said:

“You could write a book about all the things that have happened Here in the last few months”

Well, a person can spend Their whole life clawing and struggling, Trying to get out of their hole, Climbing high enough, hoping, to kiss the lips of destiny, Only to one day find that it is destiny That has come down To kiss Them. 201

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The Color of Orchids

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It began to rain lightly. Claire knelt down and tied her shoe. Ian watched the fingers thread the laces. It seemed to Ian that Claire had very sure hands. They acted like they knew what they were doing more than she did. Claire stood up and strode toward him. Ian watched that too, the way she walked. It was a small powerful stride, not like the way some women walked. They walked under street lamps. They walked in the rain and dark. She walked with her head down and her hood up. Ian looked at the ground. He looked at her shoes. He opened his mouth to say something but he still couldn’t find words enough to answer her question. A silence grew between them. Ian looked over at her. She looked at him. Claire grinned, “I’m still waiting,” she said. Ian smiled. “You know you’ve got a little crooked smile. Only half your mouth rises,” he said. “No,” she smiled a full smile and took her hood in her hands and used it to cover her face. “It’s a maniacal, almost cartoon smile.” They walked along. They were quiet. She had read the manuscript he had written, the one you’re holding now, but it had a different ending. She read it, then came to him and said she didn’t know he had those feelings for her. “Halfway in love with?” She had said. “Well not love,” he had said. “Well, what are your feelings?” And that was the question. They walked for miles, in one big circle. Ian tried to say anything, but couldn’t. Every phrase and syllable paled by her and the thing she stirred. What does it mean, Ian thought, when a man whose whole 203

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world is made of words finds them to fail completely? “It’s never taken anyone this long to answer this question, I think,” Claire said. “What are you expecting me to say?” “I don’t know, but I know I’m expecting something different than what everyone else says.” “What do other guys usually say?” “Usually they tell me what they like about me and then tell me how they feel. And then they say weather or not they want a relationship with me,” Claire said. “I don’t think that I can tell you how I feel. I don’t know if there are words for it,” he said. It sounded cheap to him. He felt wrong saying things. When the average man with the dullest emotion can express himself through his mouth, well he’s got me beat, Ian thought. “I don’t want to… The asking negates the wanting,” Ian said. It didn’t sound right to him. His stomach hurt. “You can be consumed, but…” Ian’s stomach twisted in knots. He sighed. “What do you think about me having some sort of feelings for you?” He asked. “I don’t know. I’ve been through so much counseling since my ex went to jail, clearing my head and being told that all of my emotions were wrong, I don’t think I would even know love if I saw it,” she said, “All I ever did was jump from one relationship to the next, getting together with people who couldn’t take care of themselves. And the last one was so bad I really don’t want to do that again. I just think I want to be alone for awhile.” Ian’s stomach churned. The two of them walked down a dark street next to a field. They walked along a fence with cows on the other side, under street lamps and through the rain. Ian’s mind searched for words. His thoughts drifted but always came back to the thought of Beth and the men she had been sleeping with while she was with him, how he never knew. He understood how Claire felt. He wanted to be alone for awhile too. It was in that mutual feeling that the need was born. Ian felt as if 204

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he were in the dark and had found someone in the same dark he was in. The irony, Ian thought. “I care. I just want to share some affection, whether it’s for a long walk like this, for a short while or for a long time,” Ian sighed, “I don’t know really how to say this,” He said. Claire laughed, “Geez, is it really that hard?” “It’s not really funny. I’m really trying hard to get this across to you. I really want to say it somehow,” Ian’s chest tensed, “What do you want?” “I want to be friends with you, if something grows out of that, then great,” she said softly. “Being friends is all I really hope for,” Ian said. They walked through the neighborhoods, past rows of trees and fences. The rain fell, tapping away at the leaves on the trees. The wind rose a little here and there. A car passed. It was very quiet. Ian thought about it, the whole thing. His chest and stomach twisted. The words wouldn’t come. He thought about all the things that went with it. It was like the flowers he had left on the handle of her car door, a simple longing to make her feel adored. Ian looked at her. She was looking down. Ian didn’t want to be the person who made her look down. He wanted something from this girl that couldn’t have words put to, a closeness, a change, something that there either has never been or he just hasn’t had yet. But it could only come naturally, without taking. He couldn’t ask her for anything. Maybe I just really need to get laid, Ian thought. He thought about the things that came and went. He thought about how he never stopped any girl from leaving. He thought about holding Claire’s hand. Well, it won’t matter in the end. Then Ian reached down and took her hand. They weaved their fingers together and held on. 205

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“I wanted to do that earlier,” she said. “Why didn’t you?” “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea, that we were anything more than friends,” she said. “Why did you want to hold my hand?” He asked. “I don’t know. I just wanted to be closer.” Ian looked at her shoes again, “Well, that’s what I want too,” he said. They walked in the rain, along the empty streets. It was almost two in the morning. They rounded the big grey wall that surrounded Ian’s neighborhood and eventually got to Claire’s car, all the while still holding hands and with her hand in his all of his thoughts no longer mattered. His musings about women—his need to understand, say, the way they chose, or innocent love, or how two people fell apart, or just the commodity of them—disappeared into the rain. These things, yesterday, and tomorrow were just nebulous dreams when compared to her fingers. All that mattered was to walk with her, to hold her hand, to be there in that spot for that brief moment in time. “Well, it’s time for me to go,” she said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a better answer,” Ian said. Claire shrugged her shoulders. “I want you to stay,” he said. “I have to go,” “Oh, I know.” Claire opened the car door. Ian stood there and she turned to him. “Okay, I guess this is goodnight,” he said. He reached out with one arm and hugged her. She reached her arms under his and put her head on his chest. But his one armed hug wasn’t good enough, she pulled Ian’s other arm up and over. Ian held her 206

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tighter. They embraced for the same length of time that it takes a leaf to fall from a tree. Then they stepped away. “Goodnight,” Ian said starting to go. Ian wanted to kiss her, not one of lust but a kiss that was a little like the flowers he had left on the handle of her car door. But he was afraid. He didn’t want her to think it was just a come on or an advance she had to fend off. He didn’t want her to disappear again. So much is lost in the muddle of things. Claire stood staring at her driver’s seat. “What’s wrong?” Ian asked. “I’m just confused,” she said. She turned and looked at him. Her hair fell over one eye. The orange light of a street lamp gave her a soft glow. Ian took the sight of her in; the tender curve of her cheek, the stillness of her lips, the way it all came together in a imperfect form of symmetry, to look at her made him feel like a child on the forth of July when you looked up at all of those beautiful exploding lights and then didn’t want to look away. They both lingered there on the street. And it came to Ian easily, looking at Claire. Love was just some kind of monster. For a man to allow reason, risk, fear, old scars, place, time of day, losing face, or yesterday stop him from trying to even give a girl a simple kiss, when just the way her hair falls can compel him, then that is a man who knows nothing of what it means to be alive. And so, in the rain, for the second time, Ian kissed Claire.

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Of Liars and Mad Men

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My life is a cigarette. Everything therein I’ve noticed burns and falls away like ash: the minutes, the hours, the days, the booze, the laughs, the friends, the music, bed sheets, toothbrushes, Id badges, acquaintances, biology tests, the rings she wears on her fingers, ticket stubs, Valentine’s day gifts, promises, my tattoos even too, kisses from strangers at night, that guy who said “can you blame me? It came beer,” pennies, our love, our kisses, our caresses, our inside jokes,

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that movie you just canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop watching, pens, mom, dad, pets, sisters, other peoples sisters, that friend I never kissed for fear that she might end up being just another girl and the friend that I did kiss who became less than just another girl, second place prizes, cell phones, her cell number, convenient loves and one night stands, memories, those turn to ash more than anything, roommates, sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ex boyfriends, the cute way that one girl would tell me to shut the fuck up, school, teachers, time bombs, unwritten lines of prose, the things I learned, the things I thought I learned,

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and the things I have to keep learning, sixteen inch pepperoni pizzas, blue hair, drugs, conversations with women I really liked, moments, being carefree, the sick feeling I get when I think that maybe sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s found another man, the sick feeling I get when she doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t call me back, piercings, coworkers, alarm clocks, pay checks, beach trips, wax museums, sunglasses, lost loves, lost loves turn a person black like smoke, from the inside to the outside, piss yellow lighters, the cruel ones that never loved me and the kind ones

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that never loved me either, the women that I wish I’d given flowers to, sweaty palms, her sweaty palms, joy, pain, fear, me, you, us, loneliness, All just dirty snow drifts in my ash tray and flakes on my coffee table, smudged white lines on the knees of my slacks. And through all of this there is the writing. The writing is the filter. It’s the butt of the cigarette. The writing, like the butt, is what’s left over after everything else burns. It’s what reminds me that there was something more than ash there to begin with.

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