interlude, or, commercial break two

this is intended to be a personal prayer for purity
but I plan on talking like it’s just you and me
in our own little circle of what-ifs and maybes
punctured by I love yous and whys and babyyyyyyys
and baby
I’m trying to save me
trying to draw the line I walk in sharpie
clearly defined and bright black, burning holes in the page
and none of these words have been born in rage
this shit is holistic, all natural, all sage.
I prostrate
before you
to give my inner workings as an offering
my explanation: the inscription on the inside of your ring
glinting gold
as it’s told
I stay outside the hold
praying I don’t grow old
in your eyes
as I grapple and struggle to incite the rise
of the reasons behind the most high-pitched of my sighs
pinched between a hard place and a rock
I place my own being on lock
prevent my breaths from getting too close to their breaths
but tying them up in my hair so they don’t stray too far
and the people I’ve subjected to this theory
know who they are.
but notice it’s “they”
this is a thing of the past
if my life is thrown overboard
you’d still be the mast
and i draw a new line
in this paper sand
and I’m serious this time
I’m taking a stand
and the oceans of time
can’t breakbeat down my hand
the stone of a wall that resists life’s plans
of white picket fences
or neatly cut grass
I’m chopping my hair off and cutting class
theoretically
that’s huge for me
to reject everything
that I thought I and this could be
and to try and see
just how real IS this clarity?
so far, it’s reacting blindingly
proof so full we can barely see
the insignificance of controversy
the futile nature of the objects of worry
and I’m drawing
and writing
and tracing my life
and thinking about possibly having a wife
going under the knife
risking my life
and cozying up to my own inner strife.


… I’ve got a plane to catch.

two two

It was what you’d call a collision. A one-two sucker punch from your past after getting carded at Peel Pub by your future. Don’t cheapen this, please … I live here. I lived here. What marks that difference? What makes that ‘d’ so valid? Validity oozes from these sidewalks, the greyed, formally whited tile in the metro. I miss you, warm whooshes and French chit-chatter. I missed you so much I forgot how missing feels, miss. It was a loud bass line and free love and the beauty of not having to make anything of myself or make anything for the world except a good time. It IS a sweaty, smoke-filled terrace with best friends perched on wood walls giggling about the beauty of cityscapes. Solidity. Confidence in brick and steel. Belief in the functionality of a wheel. Wheels turn, blitz over New England in the fall, and they bring me home. Wherever that is.