crimes against humanity

you know
what you did. and you
know how totally unacceptable
it is. if you want
to be in society, that shit
just doesn’t fly, man.
so very very
not cool. I’ve been silent
for too long out of
cowardice but I’m
putting my
foot down. no
more. this
shall not stand.
I will find you
and I will make you
hurt the way
you hurt me.

so whoever left your
goddamn coat
on the floor at the
Sidewalk Open Stage
tangled around a chair
that made me trip
and nearly do
an embarrassing
faceplant in front
of everyone:
fuck you!

your bracelet

you left a piece of yourself
at my house the night
before last. I’m wearing it
as I travel across
the city to see you.
I like the feeling of it
around my wrist;
surprisingly heavy,
a little chain to remind me
that I’m blissfully
yours. it bears a
Caduceus
which makes me think
of how we grow closer
together, entwined,
and stronger
because of it.

if my subway car crashed
right now, emergency medical
personnel would be very
confused. I wonder if
they would think
I was you, or would it be
obvious that this does not
belong to me.
except for how
it’s a part of you
so it does, just as
you belong
to me and I
belong to you.

the fleck

before I left the house
I noticed I had a tiny fleck
of something in my teeth
and resolved to floss
it out.

at the end of a magical night,
I smiled at myself
happy, tired
in the mirror
of the bathroom of my
favorite venue and
saw that same damned fleck
still hanging out
devil-may-care.

the moral of this story is:
no matter how cute you think
you are, there’s always got to be
something that wants
to bring you down
to earth.

flies II

the French
have these little screens
they put over food
to keep it free
of flies.

I wonder why
accommodate
these flying nuisances.
is it because
they accept that there
will always be a fly,
that problems and irritants
are a fact of life, that these
flies are real and they’re
not going anywhere, so
they must just be
lived with?

or are the Frogs just
too lazy
to put up flypaper?

out with the old

in my medicine cabinet,
dusty drugs from psychopharms
I haven’t seen in years.
in my upstairs closet,
clothes I don’t remember
having purchased.
on my vanity,
a hairbrush
on which the rubber
is disintegrating and
all the bristles are falling out
one by one.
in my pantry,
canned goods that even charities
won’t accept.
in my downstairs closet,
boxes of books
I haven’t laid eyes on
in 6-12 years.
in my heart,
feelings that refuse
to fully die, though I
kill them over and over.

shall I take all these
outdated things
and have a bonfire?
before you answer,
consider this: for every
tub of bathwater,
there’s a baby.
if I start throwing
things out,
how will I know
when to stop?

unaccustomed

it’s been so long
since I had this kind
of a workout,
the kind that makes my
whole body ache
in the best possible way.
the new gym
I just joined is amazing.

sometimes when I
have no place to work out
I start to think
that I don’t need it, I’m
just fine without it, I could
live my whole life without ever
doing it again, but then
I find a new place and remember
yes, this is life. there’s more
to being alive than lonely
sessions with a shake
weight. put it this way: I didn’t
join just for the free
t-shirt.

weather report

my vacation
is going swimmingly. please
disregard any postcards you might
receive that may seem to indicate
otherwise. I started those
before I got here,
when I was still
looming and glooming,
lurking and lacking, crying
in the shadows
for fear of coming into
the light, and finished them with
the calm and stillness
that comes from going
through a seemingly infinitely
long tunnel and coming
unexpectedly out
the other side, emerging
into brightness blinking
and bewildered at the beauty
of the simplest mote
of sunlight, and turning around
to look over my shoulder at
the long dark stretch behind,
amazed that I got through it, and
grateful that the light at the end
of the tunnel wasn’t a train,
after all.

ingenious

I’m laying down
my arms. I suppose
I must admit that
I’m not entirely
free of fault here.

I could have retired
from the field gracefully
when it became apparent
that I had picked up
the wrong kerchief. to fight
so fiercely for the favor
of someone whose eyes
and heart were elsewhere
was my own pointless
misadventure.

sometimes a windmill
is just a windmill. the
Fair Dulcinea is not really
a ragged peasant girl under a spell
that requires me to give myself
three thousand lashes
to break it, she’s just
otherwise occupied.

burn all my books
of chivalry, then
and let me swear off this madness
for a year. we’ll see
if I still want to pick up a lance –
or a Lance – when my blood
has cooled.