Little poemitas and thoughts, barely budding from the ground
Our little fire only burned for a little We didn’t even have enough time to cook something little with it But the little embers still glow a little At least enough to start new little mini fires And illuminate the little path for little thieves To keep stealing my big thoughts at night
Some people write books Or raise kids Or make great big businesses Not me I flaneur And live little poems That no one really reads But at least I’ve both lived and written them
How do I not care anymore? Is there a secret book I can read I’ll pay for a class Because it’s four in the morning And I’m scared And nothing is trying to get me Not even the cold air
So many memories of cigarette smoke on sad days Spending time with people I didn’t want to know But they had the gas and the cars And they went to the shows I wanted to see
That strawberry syrup that isn’t strawberry but now that’s the actual flavor you miss
How huge the basketball felt in your summer vacation kid arms
How you asked Cory to bring over his ball because it was newer and had a better grip
Soaking wet, not caring about it or what it was does to your clothes or that you crushed your free sunglasses the ones you got from the local radio station the one your dad works at
When all you wanted was simple sugar, two friends to come over, some squirt guns, and for all this to be real life, all the time
To play flashlight tag around the entire neighborhood, with all yards and houses inbounds
To get some attention from Amanda and for her to say that you were being funny at the skating party
To be in a good mood on a Tuesday afternoon
To not be as sun burnt as you thought
And to not fear the fear of having no idea
And to be excited that someday the world will be bigger
I am chasing the twilight in Yosemite And if I drive fast enough into it I can make the warm day last a little longer Because tomorrow I will wake up With a different kind of sadness Or maybe not Maybe tomorrow I will be a new kind of person But I will not have what I feel now Because it’s impossible to ever really be the same
How heartbreaking That this light even has to change
My goals are too lofty Last month my goal was to learn an entire language And I remember a time, Not too long ago, Where my only goal was to make it through a shower Without thinking about her
I drove my brother thirty minutes to get pie. He kept apologizing and offering gas money even though pie was my idea.
The waitress seemed frustrated that we wanted to get up and look at the actual bakery case, that the paper list in comic sans didn’t suffice. Everything she said sounded like an argument. But we didn’t mind, we just made jokes and laughed. And I tried my hardest not to judge him when he opened a fifth sugar packet. Mostly because I know what it does to him.
And quietly, to myself, I prayed in my own private way that he would never try to hurt himself again.
Your big winter coat, A place for me to wrap up into.
Playing little games with our clothing. Twirling your scarf around my mouth, And blowing hot air to see how far it will stretch. Until I notice how badly my ramen breath smells.
“I didn’t notice!” She is a fun liar.
She falls asleep mid-kiss, And I put my arm across her purse– Even though there’s no one else On this late train to Midtown. Only because it’s fun to care so much, And to really do so.
You can still read what the ICU room white board used to say: “We love you always, Jarry” in erased ghost-like strokes. Not “Jerry” but “Jarry”. The nurse confirmed this.
Mom sits in the chair furthest from the window. She reads a local news story about a man who is still a butcher at 95-years-old with“no plans to quit”. Grandma is only 91.
Grandma has had a stroke and can only recognize Aunt Amy’s voice. They said she’s confused and combative. When we arrive she’s sedated and lying in bed.
I find myself worrying more than my mom. Because I know what a stroke is and I’m not sure she does. When someone is 91, there’s a lot less curiosity about why they’re in the hospital. The answer is typically “She’s 91.” The nurse says the doctor will come by sometime today, eventually, they hope.
I find myself worrying about the upcoming week. I have more work than I have time. I made too many promises. I worry about being spread thin for weeks and maybe getting sick. The hallway is flooded with “flu caution” signs. I worry about trying to be there for both myself and for her and anyone else.
But this is what selfishness is. Thoughts of self-preservation while someone 10 feet away from you is literally dying.
She drove us down a dirt road an hour outside of Austin. A road that neither of us knew the name of. There was too much light pollution in the city to see the stars we were fond of.
So we just started driving. She silent-stared at me with her pillowy lips, until we kissed. It was the first, after weeks of long lunches, walks, and games with language.
“You start with two words and then add another word at the end so that it creates a new combination of words that also makes sense”
“Heather Graham”
“Heather Graham… Cracker!”
“Perfect!”
“What now? Does it just keep going?”
“Sure!”
So we just kept going. Until that starry-drive night, under the swirl of moon and headlamp.
With the release of our lips, My stomach changed shapes into a nauseous one, almost anticipating the turmoil to come.
I had just lost the love of my life a few months before this, I didn’t know what I wanted. But, we just kept going.
The fine balance of youth To be loved but not ruined To feel misunderstood, almost daily
To be told what’s for you Without realizing yourself first That in your imagining, you could create anything Better than what you will consume Until you are accidental in your wanting
To find your carpentry, painting, pastry, or poem That makes your insides boil And turns your years into yells
Rejoice, young ones, In your rebellious hearts of art There’s almost no lying at this age At least not with ideas or rage
She brings me a pillow and a goodnight hug “I love Stevie Knicks” she says, the needle drops The music is way too loud I can’t tell which room it’s coming from
She’s not an alcoholic but she plays one tonight in real-life
I don’t know Jo that well I had just met her a few months ago
She disappears to cry in the next room She reappears to apologize for it
The catshit-litter smell surrounds my couch bed
The music is way too sad
I’ve had a crush on her sister for awhile But I don’t know where she is now. Utah? LA?
Jo doesn’t want me to drive home I had a beer, for some reason at a place that primarily serves breakfast
The record is on the wrong speed
She is doing some kind of dating with my friend But they haven’t known what to call it since May “It’s not going to last”, says Jo But I can’t remember if she said that tonight or weeks ago
The floor looks like barely glazed terra cotta
The music is way too perfect, actually
I see where the cat litter flecks have scratched the tile A little trail of damage
As she paces between rooms like a living ghost, she asks if I need more blankets on this sticky, unair-conditioned Texas Tuesday in July
She disappears into the next room and I don’t remember how to sleep I don’t remember what waking up looked like or what quietly leaving at 4am must’ve seemed like
What am I, really? I float like gold flecks in water Occasional shining But only at particular angles Making room for mediocre film to form And clog up the voice that tries and cries for a soft thing
Mexico City I have not posture or space to waste To be leaf on ordinary twig
All the things I know Still don’t make me glow Burnt-out bulbs and frightened Aphrodite
Oaxaca I wandered into Christmas-light laugher, wondering if I wandered into Sunday worrying
The danzantes of the bar and kitchen staff Fiery jaunts, moments of chistes or chisme Flirtations as thick as the Oaxacan sun Warm syrup, sticky social
Tulum Ki’Bok Cafe “Care” and “cafe” are but a letter away. Paper straws and extra for to-go wares A warm glow and milk steam waves and walls between the ex-coworker and I She offers me a place to stay in Veracruz To “take” coffee, not just to drink Veracruz shows everyone baby photos on her phone While others wait patiently, daily, for something worth it
Am I back in Austin? The phone fakers here, too, take breaks from their fakes To size up the door-passers whom they may hate, love, or break
I am a careful Island With my inlet arms foam-holding all my inertia-ing loved-ones They pack cars and helicopters to escape me, quickly but slowly They blow one-handed goodbye kisses The other hand occupied by their phone Through the drizzle that begins to thicken and spit The cloud water somehow uproots the rootless sand Now there are paradises lost On islands never meant for both sunshine and rain
