Category: FB legacy

election

I guess I’ll vote if
they even let me, but
to be honest, I really don’t care anymore
who wins for real and who steals
the election. I can’t seem to vote out
my useless, corrupt heart, so I’m electing
to shut off my pain.

let Trump turn this country
into a post-apocalyptic wasteland,
then at least I wouldn’t feel
so all alone in my terrible
despair. let Hillary sell all our souls
to the banks and corporations
for all I care. I lost mine long
ago.

let’s fucking burn America
to the ground, please just take me down
with it. as long as everyone
will finally shut up about it,
and let me die
in peace.

to my therapist, who’s also not helping

I understand why you told me
to do that thing, but it’s no
good. I didn’t do it
and I’m not going to. there’s no point.
I need to face facts
and accept the reality
of what I cannot change.
asking why
is an exercise in futility
that will only lead
to even more
awkwardness. anyway
there’s no explaining chemistry
or lack thereof. why put him
on the spot when
there’s no good answer
to be had?

really at this point I feel
like the only thing
he could say that would make
everything all right
is “I lied before. I do
love you and want you.

(you’re not ugly, worthless,
broken and/or fundamentally
unlovable)

the real reason
I’ve been pretending
it’s not gonna happen
is because I’m afraid I’ll let
you down.”

my expecting that
to happen is like thinking
a damn Pegasus will just canter up
and invite me telepathically
to go for a ride. all my wishing
and hoping can’t
make the impossible
come true. so please, stop
enabling my madness.

to my most unhelpful subconscious

Look. I did not need
that dream. haven’t we decided that
nothing good
can come of this obsession? did you
think it was cute, to make me dream that he
got all up in my face and
my eyes got so huge and
I didn’t know if it was from fear
or from desire and
maybe it was both and then
you had the nerve to make him
kiss me. even in
my own damn dream, he seemed
sort of angry about it.

point taken, subconscious,
you dick. there’s nowhere I can go
to escape this awful knowledge
that it’s never going to happen
and I should just
get over it. thanks a fucking
lot.

Open Mic Life

hey, it’s totally fine and cool, whatever
that you left before
the bitter end. and
I don’t blame you
in the slightest for wanting to
avoid the awkwardness
that lay before you
had you stayed. I was not
looking forward
to night’s end either, and I think
we both know why. our friend Bobby
is awfully persistent.

I do have three regrets. only
two of which
are relevant:

I’m sorry that I was outside, around
the corner, deep in
conversation with my girl friend,
when you made your
goodbye and getaway.

but
I’m even sorrier
that I was late and so I missed
your set. how’d it go? tell me
everything.

and finally,
I was wondering…
did you happen
to catch mine?

a temple in the moonlight

remember that time,
last summer, I think, or maybe it was
more towards the fall,
after that group dinner, when we
sat in the park
and talked for hours?
our mutual friend came with us
but he left fairly quickly
and then we were alone.

we talked about politics,
if I recall correctly. remember
that little temple that looked so mysterious
and romantic in the moonlight?
I think I said the former
but not the latter. I was too
shy. apparently
so were you. or you didn’t
notice.

it’s a moot point now, but
for your future reference, when you’re
alone with a girl
in the moonlight
and she says she’s
cold, that might be a cue for you
to put your arm around her
if you so desire. and if she mentions
how beautiful the scenery is,
while staring longingly
at the moon, she might be wishing you
would man up and kiss her.
if you had the sense
god gave a flatworm, you’d know
that. or maybe you just lacked
the inclination. I guess I’ll
never know, but I’ll always remember
that night and how magical it was,
how it seemed filled
with endless possibilities. if I knew then
what I know now, I’d
probably remember it
quite a bit
differently.

anticipation & satisfaction

people who don’t care that much
about food
don’t know what it feels like.
to look forward so sweetly
to a certain dish
all day and then to be able to
satisfy that craving
is deeply enjoyable.
sometimes other things
get sacrificed for that goal –
like sleep, or having a waistline –
but it is often
worth it. that dinner I
woke up wanting, that crunchy,
buttery garlic bread, that
toothsome pasta dish, that
pastrami on rye, that tooth-achingly sweet,
hot molten lava cake, whatever it is,
lay it on me, but only after
I’ve thoroughly savored that sweet
anticipation.

the only other thing that comes close
is when love is finally requited
after months of waiting.
but those moments
are few and far between. in the
meantime… you gonna finish that?

to my suitor, whose name may be Bob

you’re
great. there’s
nothing wrong with you.
you’re perfectly agreeable, not bad
looking, willing to attend
all the mics and shows and
stuff, the perfect
audience member. you
bought me a drink
at the last event
where I met you. thank you
for that, by the way. but
you’re awfully handsy,
when it was scarcely warranted,
and frankly you are lacking the edge
that I have come to relish
in the kind of men to whom
I find myself attracted. you laugh
at all my jokes, but contribute
none of your own. where’s
your art? I’ll need to see a lot more
proof of your credentials
before I consider more seriously
your suit.

to look at

you wouldn’t think
that we are doing anything
important
to look at. we sit
across from each other but
we’re both on our phones.
we’re not on Facebook
or Twitter
or Instagram
or OkCupid. instead
we’re writing poetry.
we’re ranging far and wide
in our minds, thinking about
the past, the present
and the future, all at once;
we’re communing with the world so subtly that
it’s invisible to the naked
eye and the open
ear. I know
that whatever you’re writing,
I’ll get to read it
eventually. and you know
the same. whether or not
you feel the same way about it
I do not know, but I enjoy
the secret knowledge
that what’s in your head
will come out, and that anyone who thinks
they know what we are doing
is wrong.

the message

I’ll write it
in a fortune cookie fortune –
you never order
Chinese. I’ll write it in the sky
in puffy white letters fifteen feet tall,
and hope you don’t leave
the house that day. I’ll write it
in BBQ sauce on your plate
when you go to the bathroom,
and hope the waiter clears
the dishes before you return.
I’ll write it in chalk on the sidewalk
and watch little girls play games
all over it. I’ll write it in blood
on the inside of my lungs,
I’ll write it in tears on the inside
of my eyelids, I’ll write it in aspartame
on the inside of a diet Coke can,
I’ll write it in crumbs
for the pigeons and squirrels
to spread the word,
for sparrows
to hop on your windowsill and
tell you in a series of chirps that you can’t
possibly understand.
I’ll write it in sighs
on the wind.

all of these
would be a better way
to communicate
what I know you don’t want to hear
than opening my big fat mouth
and saying a single word.