I'm taking it all away from you

thought i'd spend the entire day reading. away from the phone. away from the t.v. and Internet. away from work and people and cars and falling leaves. locked down in a motel room with dirty sheets and pabst blue ribbon. stare at the ceiling and listen to the pounding in my skull for awhile. let it all settle here. settle me.

i thought i wouldn't have to write. what's it worth when I no longer have the words to make her
stay. she doesn't come here anyway.
no gifts. no kisses. no soft
refrain.
no more thoughts.


Do you know what i miss most about your skin?
it's things i can tell you but would rather feel. how it was against yours.
mine against yours. and me or you on top.
doesn't matter,
how much you don't move or how violently.
and if you're wondering.
I touch your hair and whisper yes, i still like you.

skin familiar
vanilla and clove with a touch of dew and sunshine.
fragile and bruised.
blood and saltwater.

she'd press her ear to my chest and if she can remember my heart beat. how it felt. the quiet sound, when it was still. She turns music off when we get tired. i like the cool darkness and silence of her room. breathing. her eyes closed, mine open. I watched her sleep.

so still like the moon in the sky. like the stars. But it only looks still, it's an illusion. it moves. we move. the earth, the dogs, the cats, you, me, the baby. everyone.


the record spins in the night.
and my mind is the needle stuck in the groove that is
you.

Poetry is not a luxury, it's how I'll break this home

a burning black witch candle
from halloween.
I play our sad music
loud.
we are in the dark cutting out
paper hearts.
be careful not to slip
be careful not to cut me deep.
go on and say something you don't really
mean
or you do mean
or you are mean for saying it.
love.

listen to me
ramble in the darkness about
my secret love affairs
about a heart that stopped beating.
about being broken.
I'll tell you about what it took for me
to pull myself back together.
how hard it was
how long it takes
how fun and necessary
and how much it taught me.

barely breathing
i focus my eyes on the moon
on snow
on blood
blood on the snow
those are just lyrics,
things i write for you and things i felt for you.
I pull the blanket up over our chests.
it's cold tonight.
have you forgotten me yet? have you ever gotten over it?
I call to you in my mind as if you can hear me
and maybe you do. Sometimes i think you do.
like now.
like always.

when i hear your name.
I buzz like power-lines.

i use my mouth. I use it all over your skin. I use it up and down and i taste honey and stars. I want to know your body and how can i know it if i don’t lick you head to toe?
she says "stop. you' re gonna eat me" and i say "but baby, you taste so good."

when i was a kid i put things in my mouth. I tasted paste and the barrette from Becky's hair. It fell on the floor and she didn’t notice me pick it up. After school i took it from my pocket and put it to my nose and it smelled so good. Strawberries. It tasted like dirt - mixed with strawberries.

Darlin' you'll be the ruin of me

my paper heart:

I carried a legal-pad in my backpack, striking yellow paper. It was the sun and star to beautiful to pervert with words. My spastic cursive turning beauty to chaos. I hated my language for ruining the silence of such delicate pages. The right words elusive or never enough. It's as simple as a drawn heart.

I scribbled my signature over and over in the margins.
In the middle of the page her name. mine. They looked good next to each other.
I started a letter:
Dear you,
will you ever notice me?

Wisdom teeth:

there was a girl in class who never spoke. she was pretty and shy and her hair was golden curls. You could tell she didn't like people much. I think she was scared. I think i fell for her mystery. I think she became and instant muse for me. She could talk I'm sure of it, she just never did.
the teacher called on her and she would open her mouth but nothing came out. An uncomfortable silence. In the seat directly behind her, I would hold my breath. Minutes seemed like hours seemed like days, and the teacher waited.
" Okay, maybe tomorrow?"
finally I would breathe.

Our favorite record skips:

Do you carry around ghosts? I wonder are you anything like me. Do your wisdom teeth hurt? What is the sweetest thing you've ever tasted? I carry around ghosts, I talk to them. If i could get you to say something. If i could hear your voice. Is it husky like girls who work in offices or on t.v.? Is it soft and slight like a bee? Here is my phone number. show me where you keep your honey. Don't be afraid to call or I could call you if it's easier. You don't have to write me back. Not words anyway, just numbers. I'll trade you poetry for math.
Are you good at math? count up the letters in our first names, subtract 2 and add one. If it's an even number then we were meant to be lovers, if it's odd, lovers then enemies. do you like to have your fate decided?

Fly:

Dear you,
I saw you take one of my birds home. Did you look inside? Did it make you think of me? I am the boy who sits behind you. I am silent too. Will you keep it in your room? did you know it was all for you? the birds, the notes, were all for you. this is for you.
"okay, maybe tomorrow?
let me breathe.

I folded notes into yellow paper cranes. It's something I do with letters never sent. feelings kept inside with sharp edges folded and tucked. write, fold, fly.
I left them in all my classes, everyday, on desks, in the lunch room, on the bus, I hung them in trees. hundreds maybe thousands set free. questions with no answers. my paper heart has wings. I am the boy who sits behind you. I want us to unfold. read me. ruin me for all others.

photo:
yyellowbird

i liked her when she was sweet and unexplainable

The weight of winter:

Ive been invited for pancakes at my mothers on Sunday. fluffy, blueberry. All the women in my life make delicious pancakes. They bake with aprons tied and hair pulled back. I would say i prefer bacon and eggs but it lacks the charm and whimsy of gooey buttermilk batter and pretty green mixing bowls. It's just a greased up fry pan and spatula nothing poetic. something to have the morning after a night of dirty sex. pancakes are warm blankets, they are snuggling up in bed together like a Kurt Halsey drawing.

I grew up, my mother stayed at home. cooking, cleaning, caring. Always there. I thought that was everyone until about 5Th grade. Of my friends parents that were actually still together, both of them usually worked. I might be slightly needy of attention because of it.

the girlfriends Ive had. I'd never see fathers around. Step-dads at most.
This is Dan she'd say. I'd shake the guys beefy hand and automatically assume he was a creepy sex pervert after my girl-friend. I'd check her room for holes in the walls and cameras hidden in the ceiling.
I couldn't find anything here. but I'll be right back, I'll check the bathroom for you.


I'm the only daddy you'll ever need to know. I'd say.
I'd get a laugh, but some night we'll be having sex and can you guess what she'd call me?
It must be the glasses and stories and the fact i won't let her have any fun. She plays the part of spoiled brat so well, I know she isn't faking. neither am i.

but i like her when she wears her apron baking. she told me it once belonged to her grandmother and it doesn't turn me off any less. she's sweet with the little blue spoon in her hand wearing next to nothing. The apron, the socks, the undies. I'm not saying it's where she should be, but i won't say i don't think it's the hottest thing next to Georgia asphalt and maybe her in my Cowboys #9 Jersey.

It's always these little things. things like blue berry pancakes , aprons - the smell of girl. It kills me to remember that she has a weakness for Patsy Cline and old country music. and her hair clips. I'd pick one up off her night-stand sniff it, press it to my heart. they smell like metal.

Photo credits:Cheap Thursday's'
Art credits: the black apple (etsy)

and so i will watch you from afar

Pretty girls make graves. It was playing on the radio by her bed. Autumn- leaves burnt brown and orange falling through an open window. She told me she cut into her skin to feel something. i wanted to make her feel that something. I laid beside her watching her bleed. I found her funny and overly dramatic. we stayed up late. let me put a band-aid on it. let me fix you. I'd say.
I slept over almost every Friday and it was inevitable she would get up to pee or go flip over the mix-tape an bang her toe on the night-stand. Every Time.
I loved her little voice, her big profanities in the darkness.
fuck- fuck- fuckity face fuck. Christian stop laughing i know you're fuckin laughing it's not fucking funny.
Pressing a pillow to my face i'd say-
nu nu I swar im nut..mrph..mprh.
Her dirty mouth.

We were to young she said but, i would have married her that night. I asked. She told me I was silly and sweet and I wasn't the girl you marry. I'm the girl to put you in your place

I would have driven you anywhere. I would have taken my car and crashed us into a guard rail or into the deepest lake. I would sank to the bottom for her. I did. I wanted her to feel me. my words caressing her rusty mind. my body pressing against her body. alive or lifeless. Feel something, even if it be our dying moment.

I kissed her scars and mouth like it was our last kiss. she played along so sweet. she let me touch everything deep. it was only when i reached for her heart that she would flinch. grabbing my hand and whispering. NOT there.

She let me as hard and as long and as violently as I wanted, as I needed. I needed it. the feeling of something too. i loved her like it was my last love and maybe it was..... she ruined me for everyone else. Everyone has someone like that.

i can't explain how i spend my days - I'll show you.

i said this: i miss you.

i did this: woke up and started again, read some of a new book, made her dinner, rubbed her head, a song left me speechless, a puppy stole my heart, forgave myself, said fuck, had ideas, looked at her picture, found pictures, stole pictures, stole music, stole art, made art, made love, fell in love, imagined, fell asleep, woke up, thought about you, used blue ink, spilled wine, cleaned my glasses, cleaned her glasses, kissed her goodnight, kissed her goodbye, watched her sleeping.

I wrote things down in various places and they looked like this:

- i used to write things here. now i don't get it. now it's like why? but then again why not? even when she used to read this. it's just ill communication. (i can't believe i just used a beastie boys term)

-my birthday is the 14Th, I'm getting married on Halloween. Ive always liked October. the leaves don't change down here in florida. they don't fall. only me

- i feel pretty good after all, at least i know Ive inspired someone. a little her, a little him, a little you. that means a lot to me. why is once never enough ?


- when someone likes you the littlest things you say and do mean something. mean everything. I remember when the buzz of her phone made her jump with excitement because she knew it was me. I wonder if someone calling her now means as much. is the shiver still there? a quick fix is all it takes sometimes. just hi !. that's it. then we are good for awhile. just words through space. just words through space placed on page. i can feel when she thinks about me. it's not jedi magic. or some disturbance in the force. It's okay to miss the good things once in awhile. just thoughts for a moment. lay still, lay stolen. it's normal. just something to blink before your eyes, until it's gone. I think it's fair that i let you use what you need. this life is far to short, the people here are large in numbers, but few enter the vein. fewer still enter the blood stream. however far you'd let me reach, it's the least we can do for each other.

- my mother always told me my biological father was a preacher. my grandma told me he was an artist. are you anything at 18 years old? isn't everyone an artist and preacher? I'd like to think i am.

-I saw my birth certificate the other day and it's bizarre to read my mother being only 16 and him only 18. in 1969. It's strange to read his name, of someone you've never met, but is genetically linked to you. It's just that everything always appeared to be clouded in some kind of mystery. As a kid i could imagine him being all kinds of things. And me being a part of him having all kinds of wonderful powers handed down to me. i have been a mutant, a super-hero, son of a rock-star, preacher, artist, in the mafia, and even a prince. I've never thought of anything less than that. Even after all these years, my expectations remained high. i am living proof that " somethings are better left unknown."

- i looked him up the other day, with everything i do know and the internet being what it is. (god and the devil). I did it on the premise of finding out about my family medical history. Anything i should be looking out for?, Had he already suffered a heart attack at a young age?, balding? I mean, when can i expect to fall apart? That kind of thing. I only looked though, i didn't make contact , didn't interfere with his life that he wanted no part of me in. Though i might have half sisters\brothers somewhere out there. more to imagine i guess. Christina Ricci my half-sister? That would be strange. His parents are pushing 90 and both still alive so that kind of answers my question about the the medical thing. He lives in an upscale part of California. Owns a marketing agency based out of Santa Monica. So i guess he is an artist\preacher after all. Long way from rock-star, super-hero though.

i finished with this:

there are pieces of me scattered all over

dirty smudged
pages that
you wouldn't read

there was a story
i wrote
about us
about you
about me

a summers end a good winter

night driving
burning drowning
leaving

you ended up writing horrible things about me
and i returned
the favor
in less clever lines

i said i fucked you
i said i loved you
i whispered
every rude word i could think of
in your ear

there

are pieces of me strewn all about

and they don't
fit

without
you

be it me, or be it none

and us both never being big on communication or just an inability to completely understand what the other was saying. whether it the heat between us, the pretty, or dirty, it was deafening .
So, as not to hurt each other by mistake
she tells me silence is golden. but, it's green in your eyes.
not like money but like emerald seas, which alone spoke volumes to me.

All those poisoned arrows were never pointed directly at you, dear.
something you should know.
for everyone else who thinks they know me and never will.
(this doesn't include you)
it is my distance that fairly often leaves me
missing my mark. i wonder with you, if i had ever gotten close.


I find this sort of thing: the writing of letters .. frustrating and futile.
it only reinforces the fact you miss something you can never have. confirms that you loved her more than she did you. you think okay, maybe she.....and that's only wishful thinking and only so you can make it through the fucking year.

sure, she has memories and fondness and thank fullness but that will never make her yours. all the inspiration then and now. yours once, yours for a moment, but never yours now. never close. never beside you.

and don't you think about that? isn't it slightly possible to sink back in? because the one true fact of it all: is that we will always be more than exceptional together in small doses. how we are fine with the big things but the little things we can't possibly sustain. It's not fair that its the little things that count sometimes in life. short bursts. attention spans directed only to our fire and chemical burn all the way down to the fingertips. in a room, without words, I picture nothing has really changed. I mean how does one fight away feelings when you haven't a clue as to where they come from nor why they never seem to have left.

but i can only measure us in hours at a time, maybe a night or two or three. bodies and hearts on fire. this is why there are no pictures of us. lets kiss before it gets bad again. let me leave before i say something stupid again. we shouldn't, but why can't we stop this? we do what we always do. I am your ice-cream on the cake. nicotine candy. we do what we always do. make the stars shine. I lean you back as you kiss my face. where forever and never again take up the same space in our minds. exceptional with hello and goodbyes and heat until we are burned all the way through. leaving us only with addiction and smoldering ash.

Oh, it's the little things you miss

Tell me a story:

when i was little i had a teddy bear named Cocoa, and once, I forgot him in a motel room. I'm only guessing because it's been such a long time, but i think it was in North Carolina. I remember passing lots of Christmas trees. I rolled down my window so i could smell them. They weren't in vacant lots for sale, like at home, but just growing on the sides of the road and in the mountains.

it was the holidays and we were on our way to visit my aunt. I didn't notice he was missing until hours after we left the motel, and when i did i was instantly heartbroken. how could i have forgotten my best friend in the entire wide world?. I instantly shifted blame to my parents...how could you let me leave him?
I must have been in such a rush. there was a Waffle House right in front of the motel and my mother had promised we'd eat breakfast there before we headed out. we never went out to eat. my mom usually packed a cooler with milk and drinks and brought cereal along with plastic spoons. and you have to understand my love for waffles and chocolate milk.
I must have left poor Cocoa in bed, under the mounds of covers.

We have to go back!!! we have to get Cocoa! my Dad squealed the brakes and nearly drove us off the mountain. He must have sensed the devastation in my voice because we got off at the next exit to call the motel. My mom asked if they had found a bear. No, a teddy bear. I heard her say. Yes, i know you have real bears in North Carolina but this is my sons teddy bear. I caught my father rolling his eyes at this. Did they thrash it or not? we gotta get a move on.

A few minutes later the lady on the phone said they had indeed found Cocoa. He was safe and they would mail it out right away and my mom gave them my aunt's address.

When Cocoa arrived at my aunt's, I opened the box and began to apologized over and over. He just started telling me about his trip. How it was bumpy like a roller coaster and only a little hot inside the box. cozy was the word he used and much needed sleep. He said the motel room wasn't so bad and the cleaning lady was pretty and nice and sang him songs in Spanish. She gave him a bath too and indeed Cocoa smelled clean like dryer sheets and his fur was bright and fluffy.

he made the journey back to me seem fun and exciting not scary like i knew it probably was. I promised to never leave him behind again, that i would be careful with the people and things i cared about. but, he was a bear and even though the lesson i learned wasn't lost on him, he wanted to know how the waffles were and was it the bestest chocolate milk i had ever tasted in my entire life?