Fuck it. I wasn't really planning on posting this, in case specific eyes saw it and got scared. BUT fuck that. I'm proud of this voice. I'm proud of being able to see these things. And of being able to turn so much shittiness (over which I could be freaking out) into poetry. So fuck you. Just read it.


I said, 'I just keep writing the same story over and over.'
Nick said, 'How so?'
I said, 'There's two people, and something bad happens to them.'
Nick said, 'Maybe there should be three people, and something good happens.'
I thought, 'Yeah, but I don't know how to write that story. I only know how to write the bad thing. I mean, I can't just make something up.'


WHATEVER BITCHES IT'S SUMMER 2009.

Anyway, it's the little things. Like curling your hair, or leaving your socks on. And his arm shaking the stray honeysuckle bough free from its thicket, only because he knows you love it. Only because he wants to bring it to you, even though it's strangling the tobacco.
His arm shaking.
His arm.

He brings it to you, the whole branch, and lays it on the windowsill over the sink. He trudges back out to the field, where, slowly, one heavy section at a time, he's moving the irrigation line. And instead of your morning coffee, you sit at the kitchen table and sip honeysuckle sap from one tiny blossom after another.

Or maybe you just read that in a book. And dreamed it last night; woke up, painfully and with tired eyes, confused. Thinking you were already living your life, in the big house close to the mountains and with children running wild in the yard. Thinking you already knew his arms. Thinking you already had them. That must be it, because as far as you can tell, now, you're 20 and lonely and hungover.
His arm.
His arm shaking.
____________________________
The pink lemonade spills out, leaving me sticky and stuck to myself. In the place where my flesh connects, in the place where it folds over. I need a pen, I need a piece of paper, I need squared pages between black leather binding. I need sticking piano keys and empty hampers. Made of wire.

Oh, oh, get off of me. Get out of me. What are you thinking? I'm pretending it's not you but him inside. I'm pretending not to have noticed the sound it made when Kirk called McCoy. I'm pretending that whistle didn't knock the wind right out of me. I'm pretending not to have laid awake at night pretending the pillow was his back, pressed up close to mine. I'm pretending she doesn't exist. I'm pretending I said everything I needed to. I'm pretending I said it all to his face. I'm pretending I didn't just waltz into your beautiful apartment and fuck you. I'm making shit up. I'm not thinking anything.

It wasn't them. It was me who hit him in the face. Why would he lie? Why would he say it was a group of kids? He was embarrassed and blood-stained. He was hurting.

This isn't about you! This is about America! This is about America! This is about how much I love my country and how hard I'm willing to work for her. This is about how I hate what's happened here; this is about going back to the soil (going back to the goddamn fucking earth we built this nation on) and ploughing it up, ploughing it over, ploughing it under. This is about perfect breasts and luscious lips and, and yes, this is about unbelievable sex. This is about America.

You get told: you have a problem.
You get told: you are the problem.
You get told: you are what's the matter with me.
You get told: I'm leaving.

Do the telling! Do the telling!
I am not the problem, say.
I am perfect, say.
Go, say.
Go, say.
Go, because I am a better man than you will ever know. Say it. Say it. Yell it, for fuck's sake. It is truth.

Say it. Say, I am not a child. Say, You cannot treat me this way. Say, If there is one thing I have learned, if there is one thing that always holds true, it is that no one, no matter how much you love them, has the right. Say, You cannot do this to me anymore.

Instead, you unpack her boxes of shit and you make her a place in your home. (I wish I wasn't writing this). Instead, you move her into your life again. (I can't help it, though). Instead, you kiss her cheek and watch her play with the dog. (I really can't, it just pours out of me). Instead, you grab her chest and sigh loudly into her neck. (I hate it! It makes my blood curdle, spoiled milk!). Instead, you tell her how much you missed her. (I'd be crying if this were about you so shut the fuck up). Instead, you fuck her. (Shut the fuck up!). Instead of being you, you are being beaten, and I vomit at the thought.
Pussy-whipped.


Claw up! Claw up & out! You want to be better? Be better! Just be! Be shining and free! The land of the brave spread out at your feet, and you cry because she's drunk and God-knows-where? You cry because she tells you to? We are straight up promised liberty and justice. Go out. Get yours. Claw up.


I'M COMING BACK FOR THIS ONE. THIS ONE'S LYING WOUNDED IN THE MUD, AND I HAVE TO KEEP MOVING RIGHT NOW, BUT I'M COMING BACK WITH SOME GAUZE LATER, I PROMISE, I PROMISE, I PROMISE.

LISTEN, BOY.
LISTEN TO ME BEFORE I RUN OFF.
this isn't about you, you think it is, it doesn't make sense that it wouldn't be, given that i reference you all the time, but listen to me, all i want to say to you is, chin up!