cameo in the next to last scene.

what came before

slipped within two

seconds, when i opened

my eyes, and thought

and smiled that my mind

had finally directed

a scene with you (was it

you?), with me, 

with extras

whose faces i couldn't see.

she, and i

(and i can't

remember her name),

stood watching,

and talking, as if

this were our routine,

every day, like

high school girls,

waiting for the bodies

to walk and disappear,

and for you to walk

and reappear.

so she said to me,

that's him, isn't it?

or is it that one?

and i said, no,

that one, that one...

and you, taller, 

with your flat pancake hat

(i remember wearing it

just once, when 

you were on the floor,

maybe sleeping from fatigue,

or maybe trying to sleep,

thinking you couldn't retain

this escape for more than

tonight, can you? can you?) mismatching

your light jacket of dark

colors, like day old blood

mixed with stereotypes, 

standing atop famously

a near-black land...

your hair, long, too

long, (too much) still 

curly, in a dry mess, 

the tangible shape of 

quaint clouds, bouncing.

i silently traced the body

that is not yours, focused

on the hair, the height,

both exaggerations in 

that world of underplayed sounds,

and quietly, (i never saw your face)

you (was it you?) transitioned out,

and i carried on.

hold for third.

cradle my shadow,

and crinkle the velvet.

snickerdoodles in your hands,

the gingerbread man

is running after me.

his mouth, like yours,

wide, wide, wide,

like a monster chipmunk

on too much sugar.

talk and talk. yes,

you can say "it was

an accident!" and yes,

they would believe you.

you have the strings

all tied up, and they,

all tied up, are ready

for your hands, 

maniacally talented, 

waiting on your violently

undulating words of 

threats 

and commands.

up. down. 

i wouldn't tell.

i wouldn't dare tell.

but she will.

lightly

you step backwards

and i observe this fading 

of your hand on my head,

your fingers sliding

off of my temples,

your grasp sinking in

then out and far

from my melting brain.

watercolor and pencil.

i drew delirium,

flickering blackness

when the water 

could not hold,

i drew her unreal smile

with no symmetry,

her face away

from the traveling lamp 

light across my bed.

flashes ran above

the static paper,

in a moment too long

for the eyes

and one too short

for the mind,

they jerked and

i blinked.

her blackened shadows,

docile, loopy colors,

her head steady

under swirls of pasts.

she carries it all,

because she can,

with happiness derived

from...death in life.

life in death. 

either...

both.

about value.

when the loops of recurring

hate has erased letter by letter

the bleeding blots of love

through and through your scarf,

i think it is time i grew older,

and you, so young,

such stubborn ideas,

and oh yes, yes,

society loves you.

ignorantly your laughter

rapes your tears, giving birth

to a diamond fish with wings,

shedding light golden feathers 

of hope, of other gaudy things

i once found proud imitations of 

in the solid, empty ground.

a tall glass without water,

wine, milk or juice, without

disappointment, without

purpose, without

possession,

like smudges from forbidden

fingers, forgotten robberies,

rewritten wish lists without

words or content, in my hand,

empty palms, blistering fingers,

creaky joints and noisy knuckles...

adoration, admiration, and

jealousy (though not invited), all

at your feet, cradled in white

sandals, mild and 

temperate in a very,

very long, sunny winter,

standing above average,

straight and thin,

with chapped but perfect lips

of strawberry ink, soft

and dull like fog, warm

romantically wrinkled smiles...

you, born to be snow white,

and i, a melt of everyone else.

week of injuries.

a fracture waiting

on a black plastic sheet

surrounded by cloudy bodies

of this and that and all

that you are, that i am,

whatever it will be

it is already

and has been 

since that trip and fall, 

and almostfalls.

nothing but a yes

or a no, God knows,

He does, but i,

nothing more than

a vein, burst

in an outlined circle,

first deep magenta

squeamish and faint,

then expired violet,

old and forgotten,

with its puncture

off-center, a dot

of missing flesh.

and, two bubbles,

cooked prematurely,

disgustingly rare and

well-done, sizzled,

that formed

under the run of 

cool water (anesthesia

for as long 

as i can hold it),

the elegant vomit of a

metallic machine,

humming, spitting...

these two bubbles

that i cannot burst,

unless festering reds 

replace this pinkwhite.

i was randomly selected,

among you and you and you.

God knows, but i...

crawling.

it was enough for me

to swivel "no"

when you asked

with a grand proclamation,

"come...!"

majestically strolling

with your good pages

down the echoing halls,

happily inebriating air,

you, sir,

good old liar of 

repressed intentions

floating aimlessly,

touching barely the toy

that is your conscious.

you, sir,

wondrously bad worker

of recycled magic,

shooting through stoned

eyes of yesterdays yet

to awake for the present.

you, sir,

swiftly passing over

the fat exaggeration

of my pained fingers,

outlining my wave,

swivel,

no.

game day

watching for,

on and on

when the wind blew

and the sphere rolled,

my hands in pockets

with fingers burned,

blistering with a certain

evil, a funny story,

bulging with another day

watching for,

some waiting ears

and tearing eyes,

eager, shouting, 

their shouting 

and my pulsing,

through the sores

numbed, still

breathing

watching for,

they are here,

they are there,

then an orange vest

blows his whistle,

halting, freezing

their murmurs, soft,

across the field,

their feet spread,

their stance solid,

shifting, determined...

watching for,

when i stepped, 

attention removed,

with a cold smile

splitting chapped lips,

victory.

if

you love me,

kill for me.

if you love.

if you

take the rock

and raise it high,

yell loudly now

as i scream,

and bring it

down.

bring it down

hard.

hard like science,

with all its idiots.

all the idiots laugh,

splitting their sides,

intestines running,

smiling at the crash.

the crash waits for you,

the crash waits 

for a cold.

a cold like today.

today

you love me,

you love me.

typos.

is that you?

in a line of

identical yellow

men, 

with perfect circles

for their empty heads,

and their statuesque limbs

of curvy rectangles

mocking,

perhaps, tree branches,

or "man" in Chinese 

(with an extra stroke).

their bodies,

kyphotic,

each composed

of two legs

(one kneeling),

one arm (begging),

and a torso 

too short, 

too high.

frozen, all,

with the illusion

that they can run

on the feet

they do not have,

with my message

in the hand

they do not have,

and they are

notbreathing

without a nose,

notspeaking

without a mouth,

nothearing

without ears.

well, friend,

i am here.

and you 

are not.

your wish

that you should hate

so intensely

that you are ready

to jump

into that hot mess

of silenced screams,

as the water covers you

after the rough history 

of the darkened earth 

has pulled off your

less than beloved skin,

your mind filled

with your own noise

black and white

echoing in 

your bruised

burning chest...

that you should forget

to forgive and choose

to remember,

holding unto 

this knife,

old wounds mixing

with new blood,

broken dams and 

free flowing...

that you should

refuse to set

time free, and instead

trap yourself

within its captivity...

reconsider,

dearest beggar

of fair justice

and childish ideals.

see, your wish,

its mad narcissistic

reflection, choreographing

a dance beautifully 

grotesque

for your willing 

tongue and wanting lips.

still, your life inside,

its yells increasingly

loud, conquering slowly

your broken bones,

your tattered thoughts.

listen, the air

surrounds your lungs,

cradling your heart,

talk to the knock

knock knock

against your veins.

be assured,

this will all

soon evaporate,

the cold will melt,

the heat will rise.

you are your own.

(do not touch.

it will not embrace.

do not speak.

it will not listen.

do not kiss.

it will not love.

do not cry.

it will never.)

directions:

neither one

will say it

because of some

stupid little fear

that the other

won't agree,

won't speak,

won't smile.

neither one

will try

just in case

the other starts

to laugh

mock

or scoff,

disgusted.

neither one

will know

if it is a smiling yes,

or a smiling no. if it is

a mutual, modest flame

growing with exaggerated fire,

or a single-sided wish 

waiting for pure copper pennies.

enjoy your mysterious, questioning thoughts, the other's baiting words, and accidental coincidences caused by habitual overreading.

smile, cry, write.

become weary.

repeat.

1997.

i stood near the 

fence, waiting

and watching

as you chase 

each other 

around

with imperative voices.

i felt the wind,

and saw the trees,

waving, because

the birds ran away

when they saw 

the sun had shifted

out, to the left.

i walked.

three steps to the right.

you laughed,

and argued

and looked at me.

or sneered at me.

on the playground,

her hands like 

a metronome,

smiling, speaking

to a person

who did not understand.

1996?

a sunny day, outside. i thought of jumping down, hurting myself, instead of... (what was this?) i could have hurt myself instead of...he...what was he doing? and i justified his actions to justify myself,

because 

i didn't want to jump, 

scrape my knees 

and elbows 

and hands,

didn't want to break my young bones. but broken bones would have made me stronger. breaking the soft bones would have been a wonderful past to carry into the present and future.

childish

(rather cute) 

i shifted slightly,

twisted my neck, 

squirmed like a worm.

no. 

he was the worm. 

a disgusting piece of slimy shit.

no more than mere discomfort then.

no more than something

i didn't tell my mother.

not that day.

i waited. i forgot,

the details had escaped,

but the worm had stayed,

now grotesque...

is it smiling at me,

looking at my mouth,

the lips that refused

to open and the tongue

that would not talk?

i can't...

remember 

what year it was.

just his hands.

i remember 

his wormy hands,

my silence,

on a bright, sunny day.

1994?

when sleep ended, i opened my eyes. blurry. so i waited for things to clear and go into their proper places. i stood up, pushing the warm covers away. but the room was not cold until i called her name and no one answered. i repeated her name as i went through all the rooms, half running, and only half breathing. i didn't run long, because the place was so small, the bedroom and kitchen and bathroom and...

breathe.

she's not here.

breathe.

he's not here.

breathe,

where

where are they.

i...

it's cold.

i can see my half-breaths.

i can see them disappear.

friday night

your hands banging

on the table top

your eyes pop

your face flushed

i wonder if you

can be any louder

yes, it's true.

whether it's heads

or tails

you know already

anyway.

i'd say tails

and you'd flip heads

because opposites

are more fun to play,

aren't they.

yes, of course.

mercy.

mercy and grace

trim and lace

a wedding

a proposal

a baby

a house

it's wrong

all wrong

the priest is late

the ring won't fit

the baby...oh, the baby

the house and its leaks.

mercy and grace

weep and taste

all these shouts

all these tears

all these doubts

all these years

it's wrong

all wrong

too loud

too many

too scary

too long.

between silences.

you speak.

comma,

you speak again.

period.

i speak.

exclamation mark.

question mark?

you speak again.

answer,

answer.

silence.

you laugh,

i smile,

you say

good night.

silence.

i wonder how long

i can make silence

stay

how long

i can make you

stay.

silence.

okay,

i say.

silence.

night,

i say.

silence.

whoosh.

your name disappears.

then i wait.

but it is all silence.

lines of conversation.

18 minutes

when i was 18 years old,

i remember his words

on the computer screen,

to him lightly intriguing,

and to me, a joyous surprise.

his eyes can really play,

and his card tricks made

magic seem so real.

while he joked,

i told the truth,

and when he said

marry me,

drunk drunk drunken

words he says to half

of all whom he meets,

i said yes,

and really thought,

yes.

he picked a month,

and i said yes.

yes.

yes.

yes.

love poem 137

you open the door,

and walk in,

dragging the cold

in with your bones.

you walk,

and look,

then look away,

and in between those seconds

i saw you look

then look away,

i saw you go

i saw you,

quick then slow,

quick since time

never was slow,

slow since i

play it so.

this is the day

i realized

that because you are

half warm 

and half cold,

i am

half yours,

half mine.

how to

die.

how to die.

i'm going to tell you right now

how you should die.

or could die.

in three years,

you will fall in love with a beautiful

bitch.

she will seduce you

with her lips, tongue

and the sounds of her mouth

and brain.

she will have a good

bitchy

brain,

excellent at giving you head

aches.

so bad will she be for you

that you will think the 

nightmare

is just a happy, dark

fairy tale.

she can suck

everything out 

of you, and your wallet,

with those beautiful,

beautiful lungs.

love.

you will fall in love.

then,

you will die.

that's how.

strangers

i,

a story

you don't have time

for,

standing in your face,

an invisible space

in a familiar place,

ask silent questions

about love and hate.

you,

rushing by,

thinking of the past

and jumping ahead,

run yourself into

a puddle,

out of the water,

swimming in air,

your arms pushing.

i,

watching,

standing,

clenching my teeth.

it's cold.

i don't have

my skin

my brain.

i traded both

for a candy cane.

i am not

insane, but

you

are.

you are insane.

you are running

on a train,

with no one

to blame.

not her,

not her,

because you keep

in your pockets

handfuls of rain.

i

inhale,

and hear your feet

slamming down

on the ground

in haste

in anger

with the force

and observe

the sky in your eyes

fall,

fall.

you,

crying

with your lips,

open

and slanted,

one corner twisted

in a swirl

of super greatness,

like a hero

who is waiting

for the devil

to appear.

i

am here.

i wait

too,

listening

to catch your

raindrops

and paindrops,

and hear

you

swim past

i

blink twice

you

push

i

give

and

memory

forgets.

oh don't you know--

already--

(as my newly painted

already chipping

nails, and fingers

type this out,

this,

a mess of thoughts

trying to expel

that thing only children

and optimists have)

what i think i know?

don't you know?

oh, don't you know?

5 for 5

1.

yes. today. i thought it would be much calmer. i thought maybe overcast, or partly cloudy. what's the difference. i thought, maybe 50 or 60 degrees, with some brief but strong winds, enough to blow someone's hat over, or make your grandson tear, by accident. he does not know what this all really means. he just came, because his mother and father dressed him up, and took him along with them to you. and you. well, you would probably like this scene. straight out of that movie that you loved, because it made you cry, and you loved movies that made you cry. but i remember that in more recent years, you cried at mostly all the movies you saw. maybe you just wanted to cry. needed a good cry because you couldn't speak. now you really can't speak. but i'll come and speak to you often. every week. i promise. 

2.

i watched him walk the dog down the hallway while i stood by the water fountain. i watched as he threw it down, and dragged it around, and when it toppled over and flopped on its side, i watched as he stepped backwards to make it move with him. then she ran over, and pushed on the block of tarnished metal, urging it to dispense for her what she needed, or wanted. i guess if we want anything so much that it bothers us to live without it, then we need it. what do i need. what do i need? it sprang to her in a clear, sparkling curve, but not so sparkly because the light did not hit it at the right angle. i wish it did. i would have liked to watch liquid crystals drop into her mouth. then she sighed, and left. what do i need? i hear footsteps running around, around the corner that my eyes could not see. i hear their sharp but sweet voices. youth. what do i need?

3.

does the sun shine

on your chalky line?

or does it hide behind

the clouds, vast and wide,

waiting, for you to find?

i do not think

of the lines that link

your mind to your mouth,

these thoughts do not go

from high north to low south.

go and search,

it is waiting.

kindly perched

on a star, waning.

in a good church,

i am hiding.

4.

maybe in that coffee bar,

we would sit, drink

and think

that this is maybe

how i'd love to spend

my remaining

sunday nights.

you with your pen

(it could explode,

and you would 

possibly cry),

and i with pencil

(breakable,

but replaceable),

and our words

on two pages

that face each other,

opposite in direction,

upside down

and we'd frown,

trying to peek

at the unformed 

thoughts

and plots.

these will be words

that we may never say,

but easily write,

because the paper is

so plain,

waiting.

5. 

i sit, and read.

but next to you,

it is more than

"i sit, and read."

it is

"i sit, and read,

but i am reading

not words

but the movements

of your pen.

of your eyes,

i imagine,

running to this corner

and that corner

and back to the paper.

this book can wait.

i read instead

your handwriting

and i try to tip toe

into your thoughts.

i formulate my own 

theories on forces

of attraction,

on infinity

and beyond,

on the 9th dimension

where your thoughts

are bouncing

around me,

through my hair,

across my lips,

brushing past my hands,

neck, and all that matters is"

sixteen minutes have passed,

and your eyes are still

on your paper.

good afternoon

good afternoon

person,

who didn't wave

when i waved

(so clearly i waved)

but they all saw it

they who had their heads

turned at odd angles

trying to avoid

the other's gaze.

good afternoon

boy,

you clearly saw me

then

pretending to have

seen

something pretty

by your foot,

forced your face down,

flat and dead.

good afternoon

girl,

your soles in a 

calm procession

of steps 

of your quiet 

hushed feet,

as his bike zoomed by

and pulled lightly on

your hair with 

invisible strings.

good afternoon

those who are acquaintances,

and those who are more--

you were so cool,

you did not look at me.

cold and chilly 

like today,

a day of identical whims,

and frozen, 

mismatched limbs.

two.

i hear you talk

to your wife.

my wife.

i see her

and i speak.

you say hello,

like old friends,

now both deaf.

i speak

what my mouth

sucks in

what my ear

spits out.

you pronounce

these and those

with no hope,

blowing air into

popped balloons.

i still say

what she wanted

to hear, and

she has learned

not to care.

you feed her

syllables

without taste,

she swallows

with the right 

amount of haste.

so we wait,

passing summer 

and placed on hold.

lucid

for the sprinkling sugars

and the melting creams,

swirling around

in a tasteless black.

swallow

a lame duck,

a sleepy duck.

dead duck.

i hear voices

and songs

and laughs

too loud and bright

for this place.

i hear the light

and my ears

and a tap tap tap

and a ha ha ha.

there's too much noise,

too much day

in this night.

quack.

a scrape and some

so i ran

and charged

while yelling

nonsense and

more.

intense.

intensely cold

intensely fast

intensely stupid

happy

and scared.

because i slid,

and then i glided.

but before i fell,

i flew across, and

unintentionally

threw

my body forth

while gravity

pulled me down

with a kiss

to its rules.

and a tumble,

and a roll,

i listened as

a laugh escaped.

i froze--

maybe because

it was too cold--

waiting for

the pain

that arrived

not too soon--

maybe because

it was too cold.

then i sighed

and watched

with unborn tears--

my knee with its

deathly color,

greener than white,

give away 

newly 

vacant pores

to little 

oozing

crimson dots--

as my breath

disappeared.

a leak

do you see

that hole?

oh yes

let it drip

drop

unto the floor.

later that night

a storm came by

and blew and blew

and bore its damage through.

the next day was sad,

the next month worse,

and though the house

still stands

the hole expands,

eating itself

inside out.

see the acid

leak about.

this year

the colors went away

and in their place,

a lonely, dying grey.

i am

the annoying little voice

that talks incessantly

in your ear

and if not there

then above your head

and if not there

then in your bed

and you will not forget

all that i have said

because

i am

a loop

of three words

of four tones

of pink and glitter

there 

if not there

then there.

i called you

for you to come

to break your word

and pop my bubbles

so i can be

complete 

in delirium,

pink and glitter,

a broken time.

too old.

maybe we're just

too old,

like unread books

with yellowed pages.

and

too cold,

like hailstorms

in april.

we don't 

look.

we don't

see.

avoiding,

silent and

waiting.

we are

too scared

to know,

to ask,

too scarred

to have

and to lose.

maybe we're just

too old,

still infants,

two decades 

past expiration.

listen.

i imagine that if you

were really asleep,

you were snoring.

unshy and natural,

quietly rattling

like you did,

on the bed,

breathing a warm 

but dimming light,

inhaling and

exhaling

as if the happily

ordinary night

left you

in a stranger's home.

and

unlike the morning

that followed

when you awoke

and awoke

and left

on your third

awakening,

closing the weightless door

as i waited for its 

heavy

click,

tonight

you simply 

went, still

unshy and natural,

but softer and faster,

and without hesitation.

without words.

then i froze time

and looked at you.

i, happy for three seconds

and two moments,

remember when

i last talked to you.

she is charmingly

sweet,

and so you

equally so.

i see you.

and her,

in her miraculous

dress.

and i pretend 

you look at me

with your heart

at this moment.

still i smile,

at a wonderful lie.

no camera today,

no pictures needed.

this, i will keep

somewhere in one

dark corner

and it will keep

playing until i

become old

and forget this

silently

consummated

death.

even if you had asked 

for my spoken words,

i would have had

none

to give, then, 

today,

or tomorrow

and its descendants.

but you will have

your own,

(she too) and they

will melt into one

and one.

a beautiful two.

maybe

you will wait for me when i'm running too slowly for you. you will run ahead and circle around back to me in a few moments. i will look at your comfortably smooth strides, then listen to the hollow sounds of my own breathing. the music will be too loud, but not loud enough to cover the slow suffocation as my nose sucks in air while my mouth turns sticky and dry. maybe you will realize there is someone falling behind, or maybe i will just keep looking at your back until it turns into your shadow, until that melting shape flows into the trees' shades, until the wind starts to blow more freely. 

i will stop running and take a seat, and fall asleep in the middle of the road. 

no cars will want to disturb my dream.

it's such a beautiful dream.

and the leaves will fall on me.

i call you _______________

since you seem to know everything. i call you _________ because i'd like you to lead, because i am behind. i'll take your word for it, and if you say you know, i really hope you do. because there's nothing worse than thinking you know, nothing more tragic than believing in an untruth. lying about our lies. it's become natural. 

my name for you is a fake sense of security. an anchor in the water that i fear so much. because if you can be on the bottom, then you will be there when i sink. because _________, i don't want you to smile wisely with those quiet, knowing lips when all you really want is to speak. 

__________. i want to know, would you have broken me if the voices did not shout at you to stop?

we are bored with days and nights, miscellaneous hours, unseen stars and indifferent clouds. they no longer perform for us old tricks and simple illusions, because we chose to stop watching. but i hope to promise you that on the day you speak not the truth but honest questions, we will float on the water, watching their reunion show on a piece of the clear, darkened sky.