forget me nots

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Photo by Irina on Unsplash

I was here.

On the loading dock with all my sorrow, trophies of non-existence. Maybe if I fake cancer, my father’s third heart attack, someone will mention me in passing on the way to the next YouTube live stream.

I was here.

You all but gave up. A sobbing heap in the darkest corner of your rental. Frogs chirping. A moon glow sings. I sat with you on the toilet, trying to say anything. Lines on an imagined page, with sets and lighting. Where am I now in your dance hall?

I was here.

Your punching bag. Your litany of ills. I bore the full weight in good standing. Took your punishment like a man. You stole from me. But I was the thief, because I looked the part? because you said so? because I needed one good friend? I need, too much.

I was here.

I told your story when nobody else heard a word. I sang your praises. I gave up my life for you, watched on the sidelines as you went from flower to flower, gilding every lily, stacking every note, fucking every girl in sight.

I was here. For you.

I am gone. I am nowhere now. 55 and over.

It’s easy to forget me. Just close your eyes.

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girls in cars

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Photo by Monika Grabkowska on Unsplash

I don’t want your bread
your flat earth
your backhanded bullshit
I’m sorry
you’re wrong

they say dreams are the opposite side of this cul de sac we’re living in
I took the blame in this one, to stay in your light,
hear you laugh one more time in between bites
a ride with uncut fries and ketchup, like a blood oath,
my ass and legs in the air, because you forgot to wait for me

I ate everything in sight: raspberry strawberry cherry (gelato), one black & white cookie
god I loved you so much

please just go back now
to your farm house, your nachos, and your crazy stories

I don’t know why I’m here anymore, pretending
your fall guy to the very end for
just one kind fucking word, best friend

Dream, May 25, 2018

Twilight Trees

 

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Photo by Greg Becker on Unsplash

I’m not afraid of looking at you,
twilight trees, sentinels of thunder, keepers of secrets
your eyes are kind, and just as unafraid

I’ve never seen before
the blue and white grid shaped quite like a woman, undressing
undressed, waiting for rapture

A jet and a bald eagle chase after-effects
well beyond my thunderous, secretive trees, I only wish
I could tag along, a feather in their flight

only when I stay,
do you leave

starlight

I hold him, tight, and
he forgets me. As if I broke
some kind of wicked spell in reverse.

I watch the light go out in his eyes that saw
split infinity, we were once
children chasing rainbows, playing
jacks and catching potato bugs, telling
each other’s secrets, broken blood games,
comic trades and festooned parades.

He is my starlight in a dream,
Sheldon tomorrow.

spinach in my teeth

a blog of 5

where do you go, while I am here?

on the road, on fire, on a wild tear somewhere between
here and out to sea?

I can’t talk. I’m afraid of what I cannot say. Words a cipher, immigrant talk

I would hold you, but you would not go with me
back to when we first began

stealing apples, running into the woods, the old man and his tall tales, the smoke stacks into the gods of nowhere, we counted stars and fireflies, they’ve all since diminished

5 of us now

 

trapped in ALS, or some such number
where can I go to catch his hand
he left it in the air
between us, fireflies mist the vapor of his last breath
I go through men, dresses in my mother’s closet, the make-up on her dresser
who will catch me in this velvet floor-length gown,
darker than the night your eyes closed against the small of my back

just to find the one who remembers the scene I left behind
the little massacre of our bodies colliding into one star
velvety red, glistening — Kool-Aid and garnets —

you are not the one

Tesla in Cle Elum

Tesla, the hands, those eyes, a mind imploding with salvation if only he would stay.
The blue at midnight, the moon and the stars, his thinly veiled disguise stirred within me, that same tragedy.

He would never touch her hair.
He could not bear her hand
in his, stirring up age-old dust. Hello,
is all I can muster,
as I fold the blanket in creases over the small of his back
tucking the edges on the sides of the coffin, satin and silk, of course, to match the blue
of his midnight eyes.

I love him. But who’s to say. There is no profit in that.

crocodile tears

I can’t tell me from her anymore
when the act ends and the reality begins

my kindness is a front for information, gossip, dirt, skeletons in your closet
so I can mock you in the safety of my ozone layers

I don’t care about your families, your children, your music, your dreams
I only pretend to, for food and shelter, because you have a swimming pool, tickets to the Seahawks game, access to the clubs

I am the plus-one sneaking extras in a Ziploc bag at your potluck
(I brought the shame, and the store-bought fried chicken)

I love no one. Love is a burden, a means, the trigger on your chokehold, the neon punchline I always fuck up… biology. You’re the joke for believing me.

I use everyone as fuel.

I facsimile, you see. To make you fall in love with me. To get you to pay for dinner. To make you cry, then I win.

She thought she was such a good actress. She never knew that I was her understudy, feeding on the leftovers — until I switched the script (I wrote it, dip shits) — and had her fooled.

She never saw it coming. And you never will either.

I’m very good at stealing. I’ve done it since I was very small and I’ve never reformed, although I talk a good game.

My small gestures are just that, gestures. Small talk. Oh yeah, I’m good at that too. Only, I know how to embellish my words until they become thunderstorms.

You won’t know if I’m for real until it’s too late.

Oh, silly little poetry. How well you cover me in diamonds and pearls…

 

PBJ Club

the sky opened up
and I knew it was time to go
but I prayed just the same
lightning wouldn’t strike twice

Chicago becomes the great Nor’easter
a shopping mall that never existed between Vancouver
and her grandmother’s tired, old attic,
cobwebs, plastic forks, soap opera magazines

the elevator always opens
5 minutes before the Black Mirror museum,
a modern fairground I imagine
sounds like Facebook on Cloud Nine

millions hunched over
neat little rows
words instead of faces
the hum of busy work, cubicle houses, pizza boxes

nothing they write about
on this digital superhighway
has a damned thing to do with me
so I keep scrolling for signs of life

the PBJ club, we call ourselves
in the middle of the night
live streaming conspiracy theories
holding virtual hands before the end of the world