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Rookie

I waited outside Laura's house,
leaning against the Honda
that my mother didn't know I borrowed.
She wouldn't suspect innocent
little Benjamin of any harm or impulse.
It made me nervous inside,
because she was right.
No guts,
no glory.

But tonight was pretty gutsy, I must admit.
I told Laura that I'd take
her and her sister to a party and
we'd all get shitfaced.
My stomach started to churn with
the buzzkill questions that
most teenagers disregard.
Who's going to stay sober and drive?
What if there's drugs?
What if she puts out?
Does she have condoms?
Should I have gotten some?

Took a deep breath,
prayed to the God she didn't know I trusted
so fervently
and tried to convince myself that
this was a normal thing to do
as they got in the back seat.

And as I knew it would,
the courage turned to
just plain impulse,
haunted
by the image
of her dilluted, drunk body,
telling me she
loved me
loved me,
kissed me
and wanted to fuck me

The light turned red, and
I made that rookie mistake.
I slammed my foot
on what I thought was the brake,
flew into traffic
and died looking very unheroic.



"Let it go. If it really loves you....."

I saw her one Sunday morning
at the local park.
She was swollen and green
like that one unripe tomato
that you always see at the grocery store,
and say
"I'll give it a chance"
and you hope that it will ripen as fast as tomatoely possible.
She was the roundest thing I had seen in a while.
The biggest, brightest balloon in the bunch,
and I had to have her.
She looked so blissful up there,
floating just above the rest of the balloons.
I dug in my pocket for some change,
and could barely contain myself
when taking her out of the Balloon Mans hand.
I would love her better than he ever could.
And for a while, we were happy,
Just her and me.
Just the two of us.
I could never let her out of my sight,
out of my tender grasp.
If I let up, she would try to escape.
Try to float up to the heavens.
Eventually my tender grasp
transformed
into a vigilant vice,
and I intended to never let her go.
For awhile, she drove me crazy.
I wasn't old enough to drive yet,
so I was generally content
with walking her everywhere,
never looking down.
As she was at first mine,
I became hers.
She owned me now.
It occurred to me one day
the old adage,
"If you love something, let it go. If it comes back, it's yours."
I would test this theory.
See if I was really hers.
So the next Sunday morning,
ever carefully,
infinitely slowly,
I let her go.

And she floated
up, up
and up
and got smaller
and smaller
until the
deep
blue
sky couldn't
contain her reach.

I might have been sinking.
I might have stepped in quick sand,
and she might have been waiting for me.
Maybe I was the one who should have come back.
Probably not.
So now
I spend my Sunday mornings at the grocery store.
Throwing unripe tomatoes at little old ladies.



WARNING: there’s a glitch in the system

someone needs to stop bumping the record player
if the damn thing is caught
beating it repetitively
will achieve nothing.
so dance around the fact
that you don’t know what to do
and tie me up and drag me along
because it’s more fun to tango with two.
drop hints and lies
sweeten the deal
with candy lips and
devil kiss -
I’m not complaining.

someone needs to stop bumping the record player
or at least turn the damned thing off repeat.
the beat's got to the point
that everything I see reverberates in time
and my feet don’t even have a mind of their own anymore
they just keep hop-hopping along.
so tell me you love me,
that always helps, just a bit
just enough to keep me enthralled.
tell me you need me
you want me
you can’t live without me
it’s killing you.
you can’t live with me
can’t live without me
can’t live at all I guess
just spending moment after moment
reviewing your life for that one crucial mistake
that throws everything into disarray.

someone needs to stop bumping the record player
or just change the fucking disc.
our dancing shoes are tying tongues
and running lines along sheets until
no one even knows who we are anymore
or we know each other too well.
there’s no corners to hide in anymore
no cracks to fold into
I know every line
every lie
every ounce of skin across your body
and I’m so entangled in your mind
it’s killing me.
I can’t live without you
and you can’t live with me
there’s no crossroad when they all
lead to death.
someone needs to stop bumping the record player


i am somebody/i am some body

a monument is constructed in memory of a mundane moon,
in lieu of an aptly delusional dirge;
whose carved-over descriptions would dress the headstone,
as ivy would drape across the ivory-towered mourners,
who repudiate the fact or lie of life after death.

so instead of those words,
they'll fashion a tarnished crucifix
from broken twigs mixed with mud.
face it towards a dust-stained wall,
and claim it's ashamed, or abandoning us all.

while we'd wade through this distraught town,
we'd attempt to embrace the statue-esque crowds
after we've buried ourselves underneath
anything that'd make us feel better.

and the deconstruction of these masses
is overbearing and the heavens fall.
but this funeral is postponed,
as ashen snow dances with the clouds.

and it's something beautiful that we just don't quite understand,
but we'll all rejoice and imagine what life will be like after we finally can.
until then we'll bound ourselves to prayer and attempt to transcend;
the ones who've given up on sleep.
the ones who've given up on each other.
the ones who've given up on themselves.
the ones who've given up only in the end.

but never once before, because there always seemed to be something worth fighting for.
there was always something worse fighting towards.