What is that sound coming from my neighbor's basement?
Alright, well, here's the beast I've been working on. tl;dr, punks.
Turn Down the Alley and Walk Slowly.
“Twenty minutes from now, She has red
hair and stares out
the window at where the stars
are shining behind orange
sherbet clouds. She’s been staring
out that window for
about a minute. Now,
we’re on a bench on a bridge
above the river reflecting orange
sherbet clouds. She smiles,
head in my lap, up
and I return it to her. In two hours
we kiss. In four years,
she kisses me on my
forehead as I sleep
on the couch in the living
room and leaves.”
“I cannot help
but notice your persistence on the present
tense. Is this how you remember
all of your relationships?” My therapist is
blonde. I look at the portrait on her
desk, a man in military
uniform, smiling without showing any teeth
then I look back
at the good
doctor.
“Well, remember isn’t the best word.
I suppose, experience. Isn’t that how
you do it too?” She writes something down on her
notepad as I ask. I stare
back at the portrait. She isn’t in
the picture. She continues to write,
brow furrowed. Then speaks.
“I think you mean relive. It’s common
for everyone to go back and relive
portions of their lives.” I grunt,
shuffle in my seat, and look back
at her. One eye brow
raised over a light
green eye, she leans
forward. Quickly, I look
out the window
then back at her.
“Yeah. Relive.” My stomach growls.
Somewhere, stars shine behind orange
sherbet clouds.
---
“Hey there, Max!” She has red
hair, green eyes, and a green
dress and I’m drunk. She’s got a
smile and a hand in a white
glove waving at me. I’m on my way
in to a dance. I’m
a sophomore in high school.
“Hey, Sarah,” I smile as I speak;
she laughs. It’s a genuine
laugh and comes from behind
her breasts.
“Charming as usual. Even if
you can’t remember my name,” she says between
her fits. One of her friends
grabs her arm and they rush past
me out the door. I smile
after them then walk
into the dance. Flashing
lights, darkness, and songs
I don’t recognize. I’m there
for twenty minutes then leave.
---
“You smoke like a fucking
chimney,” she says with a tone
of disgust. We’re in a diner
in Tennessee. I light another
cigarette and stare at
her. She has short
cut brown hair, brown
eyes, and soft skin. I cannot stop
staring.
“Yeah, I know. It’s a bad
habit.” I think about her
name: Mary. The mother
of a supposed god. She looks
at the cake rack, playing with
her hair, twirling it around her
pointer finger. “I want
to quit someday. My grandpa,
y’know...”
She interrupts, turning her head
back to me, “Let’s go
for a walk. There’s too much
smoke in here.”
I nod. I watch her
hips sway as we head
out the door. We walk
for thirty minutes, playing cat-and-mouse,
then go our separate ways. These moment
I cherish. Splinters
in my bathroom mirror.
Chunks.
Bits.
Pieces.
Jigsaw.
Keep Alert. Eyes over Your Shoulders.
We dance
together in a parking lot. I play with her
hair, rolling each strand between my pointer
and middle fingers. There is no music and
I obsess over beat
poetry and Nietzsche.
There are sparks around us. Molecules
of oxygen and nitrogen strike haphazardly
And I feel them all. She feels them, too. The night leaves
in a half-second; the moment is a mere
blink.
I experience love in a flash. Over
before it begins and begins
before it ends.
Three years from now,
she kisses me on my
forehead as I sleep
on the couch in the living
room and leaves.
I skip class and opt to drink
for the afternoon. Sarah is coming
into town later this day
and I have to show her the best
this town has to offer. Sarah drinks
a long Island Iced Tea
and giggles. She doesn’t know
her limit.
I go on a date with a girl. She has beautiful
black hair, green eyes, and is a great pen artist. Sarah is
there, too. She orders black beans and rice. She dates
some asshole with red
hair and a baby
face. He shrivels when men offer
violence. A flower that wilts in the shade. Sarah
and I look at each other knowing that
the jigsaw
pieces
mismatch.
Sarah and I lay down together
in the back of my pick-up truck and watch
fireworks. It is the Fourth
of July. It’s a small, local show
at the boat ramp. An hour from now, I
overstep my boundaries. Four years from now,
I throw her
letter in the trash.
And the Alley Will Open to a Road.
“I’m glad you took the journal
writing therapy seriously.” She says as the man behind
glass remains, alone. I look
over at her, shuffling in
my seat, and say, “You read those?” “I find
them helpful.” I nod and I look down
the street. I see a couple
of doves and pigeons. Pigeons
carry letters. Messages from rats
to mice. Mice to
roaches. Roaches to nutria,
who send messages to doves.
“Is there anything you want to
talk about?” It looms below me. A soft bed
for men who drink enough. Grit
in my teeth, madam. “No,
ma’am.” “Well, keep
writing. I want you to fill this
book with words,” she speaks with
eyes belying urgency. I decide to attempt
to write it all down accurately.
Four days from now,
she throws me off
of her office.
Listen to Buildings as They Listen to You.
Seventy five years ago
they pour me into
place. Since then,
I’ve come to
accept that I’ve become a really good listener.
People, transient, bump
me, spill on
me, idly kick
me and I sit
still and silent.
“If this motherfucker doesn’t
answer, I don’t know what
I’m gonna do.” Her hair’s darkness rivals
her eyes.
“Fuck it,” She says as she sits on
me.
It’s a typical story. Today
I’m a shoulder and five hours from now
I’m a bed. I am what
people need me to be. Usually,
stairs.
They, Too, Someday Shall Fall.
Nineteen years
from now, I’m playing
with the sand of South
Carolina. I stare at
the bits of pulverized
stone. Each fragment
blends in with the other.
Anyone one who says
that they can
tell the difference
between the grains is
a liar.
I am jealous of
the grains of sand.
To blend in and feel nothing.
Nothing out.
Nothing on.
Nothing in.
Nothing off.
Turn Down the Alley and Walk Slowly.
“Twenty minutes from now, She has red
hair and stares out
the window at where the stars
are shining behind orange
sherbet clouds. She’s been staring
out that window for
about a minute. Now,
we’re on a bench on a bridge
above the river reflecting orange
sherbet clouds. She smiles,
head in my lap, up
and I return it to her. In two hours
we kiss. In four years,
she kisses me on my
forehead as I sleep
on the couch in the living
room and leaves.”
“I cannot help
but notice your persistence on the present
tense. Is this how you remember
all of your relationships?” My therapist is
blonde. I look at the portrait on her
desk, a man in military
uniform, smiling without showing any teeth
then I look back
at the good
doctor.
“Well, remember isn’t the best word.
I suppose, experience. Isn’t that how
you do it too?” She writes something down on her
notepad as I ask. I stare
back at the portrait. She isn’t in
the picture. She continues to write,
brow furrowed. Then speaks.
“I think you mean relive. It’s common
for everyone to go back and relive
portions of their lives.” I grunt,
shuffle in my seat, and look back
at her. One eye brow
raised over a light
green eye, she leans
forward. Quickly, I look
out the window
then back at her.
“Yeah. Relive.” My stomach growls.
Somewhere, stars shine behind orange
sherbet clouds.
---
“Hey there, Max!” She has red
hair, green eyes, and a green
dress and I’m drunk. She’s got a
smile and a hand in a white
glove waving at me. I’m on my way
in to a dance. I’m
a sophomore in high school.
“Hey, Sarah,” I smile as I speak;
she laughs. It’s a genuine
laugh and comes from behind
her breasts.
“Charming as usual. Even if
you can’t remember my name,” she says between
her fits. One of her friends
grabs her arm and they rush past
me out the door. I smile
after them then walk
into the dance. Flashing
lights, darkness, and songs
I don’t recognize. I’m there
for twenty minutes then leave.
---
“You smoke like a fucking
chimney,” she says with a tone
of disgust. We’re in a diner
in Tennessee. I light another
cigarette and stare at
her. She has short
cut brown hair, brown
eyes, and soft skin. I cannot stop
staring.
“Yeah, I know. It’s a bad
habit.” I think about her
name: Mary. The mother
of a supposed god. She looks
at the cake rack, playing with
her hair, twirling it around her
pointer finger. “I want
to quit someday. My grandpa,
y’know...”
She interrupts, turning her head
back to me, “Let’s go
for a walk. There’s too much
smoke in here.”
I nod. I watch her
hips sway as we head
out the door. We walk
for thirty minutes, playing cat-and-mouse,
then go our separate ways. These moment
I cherish. Splinters
in my bathroom mirror.
Chunks.
Bits.
Pieces.
Jigsaw.
Keep Alert. Eyes over Your Shoulders.
We dance
together in a parking lot. I play with her
hair, rolling each strand between my pointer
and middle fingers. There is no music and
I obsess over beat
poetry and Nietzsche.
There are sparks around us. Molecules
of oxygen and nitrogen strike haphazardly
And I feel them all. She feels them, too. The night leaves
in a half-second; the moment is a mere
blink.
I experience love in a flash. Over
before it begins and begins
before it ends.
Three years from now,
she kisses me on my
forehead as I sleep
on the couch in the living
room and leaves.
I skip class and opt to drink
for the afternoon. Sarah is coming
into town later this day
and I have to show her the best
this town has to offer. Sarah drinks
a long Island Iced Tea
and giggles. She doesn’t know
her limit.
I go on a date with a girl. She has beautiful
black hair, green eyes, and is a great pen artist. Sarah is
there, too. She orders black beans and rice. She dates
some asshole with red
hair and a baby
face. He shrivels when men offer
violence. A flower that wilts in the shade. Sarah
and I look at each other knowing that
the jigsaw
pieces
mismatch.
Sarah and I lay down together
in the back of my pick-up truck and watch
fireworks. It is the Fourth
of July. It’s a small, local show
at the boat ramp. An hour from now, I
overstep my boundaries. Four years from now,
I throw her
letter in the trash.
And the Alley Will Open to a Road.
“I’m glad you took the journal
writing therapy seriously.” She says as the man behind
glass remains, alone. I look
over at her, shuffling in
my seat, and say, “You read those?” “I find
them helpful.” I nod and I look down
the street. I see a couple
of doves and pigeons. Pigeons
carry letters. Messages from rats
to mice. Mice to
roaches. Roaches to nutria,
who send messages to doves.
“Is there anything you want to
talk about?” It looms below me. A soft bed
for men who drink enough. Grit
in my teeth, madam. “No,
ma’am.” “Well, keep
writing. I want you to fill this
book with words,” she speaks with
eyes belying urgency. I decide to attempt
to write it all down accurately.
Four days from now,
she throws me off
of her office.
Listen to Buildings as They Listen to You.
Seventy five years ago
they pour me into
place. Since then,
I’ve come to
accept that I’ve become a really good listener.
People, transient, bump
me, spill on
me, idly kick
me and I sit
still and silent.
“If this motherfucker doesn’t
answer, I don’t know what
I’m gonna do.” Her hair’s darkness rivals
her eyes.
“Fuck it,” She says as she sits on
me.
It’s a typical story. Today
I’m a shoulder and five hours from now
I’m a bed. I am what
people need me to be. Usually,
stairs.
They, Too, Someday Shall Fall.
Nineteen years
from now, I’m playing
with the sand of South
Carolina. I stare at
the bits of pulverized
stone. Each fragment
blends in with the other.
Anyone one who says
that they can
tell the difference
between the grains is
a liar.
I am jealous of
the grains of sand.
To blend in and feel nothing.
Nothing out.
Nothing on.
Nothing in.
Nothing off.