rounding out the bounce of
recycled rubber, hugging curves
beneath one foot in front of
the other.
a revisit feels better than the formative
memory. cocksure at 16, fully chipped
shoulder intact, i am softer now whether
it serves me well or not. compassion lasts
longer than bullish bullshit, if age has
taught me a damn thing at all. take
your time, it’s later
than you think.
the leaner i get, the softer i reveal my
self to be. met a woman who was a
new jersey ghost of my former
self, though i was never quite
That harsh. she spent the mixer
talking about her self, how
men in LA are “too soft” and that her
last lover left due to her sharp
edges. myself, i find the men here
a momentary reprieve from war. in another
life, i was tightly spooled, perpetually
having to have been at my destination
ten minutes ago. and nowadays,
i do not require that level
of armour, so brassy and self-isolating. i
can exhale. drop my shoulders. i am still
bold, i am still assertive and
cocksure, but with far
softer edges than before.
wouldn’t his words make you wish
to sheath those edges, i asked— just
a skosh? to evolve?
her whole aura frowned. she
did Not agree. (still got it, V.)
it’ll come back around. years from
now when you’re
sitting all alone at the
applebee’s bar in temple city
because it’s the Only place that’ll
have you and your whiskey, with
scant hair left on your head,
surrounded by
sad sack strangers,
lonely and wondering how you ended
up in such a shit spot, and what you
may have forgotten all those years back,
while you were so busy
weaponising self-preservation?
don’t fucking call me.
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
melted.
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
You.
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
the MARS DEN 