I like it.

I can not pretend
that I have ever made more
than well placed shots in the dark.

but here we are.

Minnesota Welcomes You

Surrounded by former failures

post makred and brief

they litter my kitchen floor like post cards

WELCOME TO MISSOURI

HAWAII AT SUNSET

PRAGUE WISHES YOU WERE HERE
PARIS JE' T'AIME*

I pick one up.


It has a picture of the Grand Canyon…
we never went there.

C'EST TOUT'*

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* JE' T'AIME means "I love you" in french
* C'EST TOUT' means "that is all" or "that is it" in french

Found this in my journal from about 9 months ago. Interesting to reflect upon. I am glad this is behind me now.

The last memory I have of you is how you held me delicate and hopeful like a wish you wanted to keep; safe forever. I swear that when I closed your apartment door I heard a sound like the ripping of a tattered cotton sheet. Love will never be enough for us to return to when the sun breaks the day over our hearts. Every bone in my body has anticipated this moment I think I started taking extra calcium just in case the impact of my hope train hitting the wall of reality was too strong of an impact for my human frame. I know breath will not always come easy…I know that hearts don’t always break fully on impact.

I know that hope can be your bitchy neighbor that hangs out on her lawn trying to chatter at you the moment you step out the door. I want to shut hope out but I can’t because of the enticing prospect of your return to me. It will be marked by well rehearsed and sincere apologies coupled with an amputation of all things in your personality and mine that stood between us. This is at best unrealistic and at worst sadistic for both parties. Yet closing the door on all hope makes no sense…it means we close the door on truly living.

Do I wait for the wind to blow a strong gust that will allow the door to navigate its own way to the latch? Do I force it shut and in the process accidentally shut the proverbial thumbs of my heart in it? Do I simply watch it leave it open and let it remain so in the recesses of my mind? I can’t put my finger on what is right. I don’t want to miss you. I don’t want to see you when I pass certain buildings on the street or hear certain songs in coffee shops.

Yesterday I heard a Duran Duran song and I almost broke into audible sobs over my raspberry vegan muffin and my skim latte. I want to breathe you out of me slowly like a long drag from a cigarette. I smile at the reflection of myself in the rear view mirror and turn the radio station up louder.

So glad EPT are EP.

Oh Baby
your daddy eats atom bombs,
cat nip and camel 99's (BURNING);
likes only American blended whiskies
like his women
one part schizo
two parts maniac.

His favorite letter: X. Carved into
the whip of glass bottles he uses
to flagellate his insides;
a thrashing in the womb.
Not enough till it breaks
scatters
sins leaking
from his inebriated eyes.
He counts his own fingers and toes
religiously like they were yours.
Like it can bring you back to him.

Baby, he's lost
in the dance of anarchy
spun faster and faster
until half truths
blur to lies (BURNING).

Keeps company with a public
that hide the same demons
in their empty pockets.
They remind him to
exorcise his ghosts daily
with their fist spit,
perforated punch love and
words "they dont mean."

He told me "She took the best shot and
it always felt like shit(BURNED)
all the way down."

Said he couldnt find that moment
to look in the mirror
it was only between dreams
it was only passing out
and coming to that felt
like sleeping anymore.

My fingers were too gentle
when he begged me to pluck
his ribs;
guitar strings
a lulluby for him to keep his fears a bay.
To keep your face (BURNING) Baby.

He tatooted your fetus
behind his eyelids
memorized it by moonlight
inked in solid guilt.

I am sorry.
Baby.
I have no razors edge excuses
to explain him to you.
I dont know the map
of his hash marks
on flesh forearm chalk boards.
He told me each mark
was an apology to you (BURNING).
An apology to
the nightmare sunrise
you would never see.

Still he keeps
whistling to your song, Baby,
by the light of the rerun reel
of a hungover horizon.

Every morning
he lifts your body from his bed.
Smile of Icarus wax
falling far too close to the sun
or the edge of that roof (BURNING)
made of tortured family portrait's (BURNING).

Baby. Your sonogram seared into his palms (BURNING)
"We dont have time for polaroids" he said (BURNING
and lights another 99. (BURNING)