these days

i often have to remind myself to
eat, a far cry from my childhood and
thicker teenage years. wandering
home from the frolic, a crater emerges
where my 7-11 once stood like a
drunk beacon, its charred remains
tinging the acrid atmosphere.

no hotdog in the cold tonite. no italian
job, gone are the boner pills. that block
of cahuenga is much darker, now that
the buzzballz have exploded and

if it ain’t broke

i miss you and i wish i didn’t. seeing
you after so many months was akin to
being plunged into the january atlantic.
my entire body reacts to you still, even
from a distance where you are trying
your damndest Not to look at me. (me
fucking too.)

you read things i’d heard before, in
another life in your bed. and
hearing your voice brought electric
twinges of sadness. i long for
a future where you’ll be around, where
things will be different between us,
better. fun. drunk. happy. no cold
words where once there was

but instead, you’re somehow more dis-
connected than i; broke but with no
fix. all i know is fixing, my whole
life. “approach everything like a problem,
you’ll be a hammer where every
fucking thing looks a nail. don’t be
so cynical, it’s unbecoming”, my
mother always told me when i was young
and dumb. i thought that it would save
me from being burned like that again,
but it only makes me distant. and right
now, i am cooked. of course, she was
right. wrapping yourself in cynicism
is a good way to drown. no more
stones in my pockets.

i wish you the best of
every damn thing. i hope you’ll
have me around someday

nuclear winter

i miss your good intentions but
not the hell you paved with them.
words on a screen hardly make amends,
but it’s all i’ve got so i continue to
reread and rehearse. scenarios where
you are kind, on repeat. if you cannot
be decent in This world, i will envision
one where you are the man
that i met, the man
that i ache for
the most.
i can still imagine your touch and
your voice, your eyes meeting mine with
a half moon smile from across the pool.

38F, seeking comforting mirage.
inquire within.
(no cops.)


weather could be a problem in Florida
tomorrow, but pollen is streaming
through my windows all evening. and
i wonder, what does it smell like
in space? do moon rocks change
scent with the prolonged darkness or
the sudden decaying burn of re-entry?

i want to read to you inside
the nostril of a rocket. the rain
will clear our sinuses before we
are set ablaze.

072005 // revised 012023


on the vernal equinox, 6.36am eastern
daylight time, the sun will pass
the equator. draw a line through the
day and there will

be equal halves. hemispheres
of sound and light, birth, renewal,
death, and something silently
stirring in my mind. one part fire,
one part water, two parts sun
and the squeak of a mattress spring

as i roll out of bed to start
it all over again on a circle, a
bicycle spoke, an engine droning
in the suburbs that maybe will wake
the neighbors, but nobody
knows my name these days.

and sometimes i cannot hold
myself together, can’t quite shake
off the sleep, can’t find the ignition
and my mind trips on the details. balance

is a plaid thermos of black coffee when
the dawn barely catches you, and
someone is waiting
on the other side.

so here i am driving down route 17, and
i know you’re at JFK again, waiting
for me again, absolutely cursing under
your breath because i never could
get up on time. that flight is always
murky in my memory. still dark on the
plane, recycled air standing at a halt,
the city lights seem dull from
the window seat.

is there a name for the time of day when
the sky sits there expectantly? is there
a word like dusk that describes the
darkness when it knows, yearns for,
and is terrified that light will come to
give it absolution?

two equal halves, balance. Justice holds
the scales, and synonyms seem to
outweigh antonyms. She is tipping
because She cannot find a word to tell
you what i am, when all i can do
is tell you what i am not. so i coast
down 17 and know about the sun, think
about the months, about the way the
world and our lives circle, and
we’re stuck on a loop
doomed to repeat this moment, as
i drive. driving, morning, coffee,
waiting, wanting. again

and again, and whoever said there was
nothing new on this earth, they were
right; but of course they were not
the first to say it. our lives are spherical—

cut a line through the middle. we might
be equal halves, but i want the bigger
half. the paradoxical half.

032005 // revised 012023