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or, another eulogy

A poem.

“i don’t care.”

the words reverberated through the weeks
that passed since you spoke them
though they always felt like years.
i was still seething, when it was the smell
of your freshly-dyed hair that i wanted to be breathing.

it should have been a celebration.
did you ever lay with a man without your phone in hand
or in reach, just in case
what you thought was a connection was merely malaise?
i am capable of sitting around all day
doing nothing, progressively,
expecting some sugar with my coffee and cream like every man since the dawn of society.
“too sweet to be sour, too nice to be mean.”
timely.

look at me.

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there’s probably something wrong with her kid

A poem.

she lost all that baby fat just for me.
that’s what i see

and it’s disappointing.
she didn’t have to do that, butt-ass naked
but you can’t change what isn’t yours’ to blame.

he scares me when he stares
and when he doesn’t speak to me
or when we’re side-by-side and i say “hi”
and he just outright ignores me.

she keeps it up, week after week,
while i dismiss her in reality but cling while i dream.
there isn’t anyone else
who captivates me as much
from one-hundred-and-forty-four feet away.

i don’t know, maybe ten years ago?
he’s jumped around departments more than i have
but always seems to end up just down from where i am.
no, he has a wife
and she’s nice
and i wouldn’t do anything to wreck my work life.

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fair enough

A poem.

i see your resignation
and i feel your frustration
but yours’ is not a unique situation:

that way you remember, all those
years ago,
when you look in the face of your daughter and you see
how her mother looked back at you like Anya Taylor-Joy
looks over her shoulder at Edgar Wright
when he needs her to do one-more-take of guarded plight,
just like she thought she might
when she graced the cover of a Shyamalan fright:

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i thought i was good

A poem.

and then i went outside & hotboxed my car
and could feel a weight right on top of me.
no boner: just a feeling
because i’m pretty sure my dick is dying
but i was only idling,
recalling other times other loves had held me

and that sensation flowed through me
and visually, i thought how the rest would be
as i imagined i wrapped my arms around her
and kissed her neck; smelled her hair,
thinking i could drag it on even longer
because time didn’t matter. i’d learned
how crucial it is, to make use of what i’d had
not that going out like Craig wouldn’t be totally rad,
but when would i ever find myself in a position like that?
getting fucking nuked while on top of a silo
telling my second true love i’d be waiting in the afterglow?
just have her and Vesper lesbian-domination wrestle.

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got me with the say to me

A poem.

Lord help me
to stop being so creepy.

is it the porn, God? i’ve tried,
i really have. well, you’ve watched me,
you’ve seen!
now i skip Kelly Madison’s hubby’s tomfoolery for something less mean –
not that Japanese aphrodisiac massage isn’t plenty obscene.

it’s easy to say it’s hard to be me
cause no one else i know has lived the life i lead
except the successful ones on the front covers of magazines
who overcame their bullshit before they were twenty –
harder still to be the me i want to be,
when what i’ve been through is a terrible tragedy.
sounds like more whining & complaining to me!

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