that 70's show

my feet were clenched tightly,
as if somehow that could stop the walls
from changing shape.
a hulking shadow in the form
of my friend reclined on the couch.
i was trying to swallow my own mouth.
he grinned at me.

"how you doin over there?"

well, did i send that to...
the right person? and
am i saying the
right things? and
will my sinuses
stay this way? and
is my phone
going to...die
before i can say goodnight?
and, ohhh god, what if - what if -
the girl next to me thinks...
i'm hitting on her.
or worse.
what if - subconsciously -
i am.
and if that happens to be the case,
what does that mean?
and…does that make me…
an emotional slut?
is this aaaaaaaaaall a very
obvious secret, or
am i just being...annoying?
and i just want to know if that's a shadow on his hand,
or if it's really that dirty. and….
does anyone have a problem, and
has anyone ever had a problem at all?

"great."

contrast

She says she likes the color of my skin,
says it's a beautiful color.

It's hard for me sometimes, to understand that
the stories that Mr. Whittler tells me, on late nights
and long days at an immaculate marble table
I watched built from the ground
by a man who does not look like me,
it's hard to know that his reality is different

I breaks me down sometimes to think that
the rope that held him close to
dark shades, and gets him pulled over for the hell of it.
cuffs on before questions. and makes him feel
like hardened is what he should be, to think that rope is now string
and I can't be bothered by obstacles it presents for me
it makes me feel far from him

Farther than integrating a school makes me feel from my own color.

No matter how much I talk or joke. no matter the audience...

And I admit I love the contrast, the possibility of the contrast birthing
a new shade all together.
So when she says she loves the color of my skin, I swallow the possible implications
the wondering in the back of my mind I shove down.

I remember, I accept, I realize.

the season

there's no more small, sloppy flakes falling
outside my window and
it makes me think about how this all happened around spring,
about how time is moving forward with us, won't fall
back. no more cold air caressing the curve of my neck -
just me rubbing warmth up up up

to your fingertips.

nothing could possibly be dull anymore with so much to
daydream about,
'cause my shirt still smells like your bed.

& the difference between my gray winter and this green season is
that before i never wanted to wake up & up & up

to my reality.

but now i hesitate just to
fall asleep, thinking maybe someday i'll have a cup of coffee
and realize you were a figure in my dream, a fragment of my mind.
but for now it's safe to call you mine.
so stay alive,
because i will find you.

Real life vs. past times

There are these terrible moments in life where I ask myself
what the Fuck is going on?
how did I get here?
and where am I going?
Where are my hopes and dreams?
Where did I start?

And then I realize my answers don't really matter,
or is that my questions that aren't quite right?
people say that sometimes, that the questions aren't right.

I forget some times..............I forget.
Just like I forget my time tables
and my northern life.
and my southern manners.
and that everywhere strife.

there must be something
something
something in that water that
Satan keeps on serving me.
and i like it too,
that cool fresh cup-of-elixir
that shit tyson, and jack
and billy graham always tell me is poison

That love, that passion, that extra hand
that honesty, that realization, that reality
my shaky unsteady breath,

not needing them telling me to drop the candy,
when they have no intentions of giving me anything
but water.
"Man does not live on bread alone"
Will water sustain me?

That's okay because I've met cooks, and souf chefs,
and big mammas, and mothers, and lunch line ladies
and none of them have ever met with the Good Lord
or even thought of him in a directional kind of way

so those moments. those terrible moments.
That doubt.
the undeniable orienteering flaws,
the dreams I never dreamed of
and the realities I never expected.
They are my starting place.
I move up, and I look down to see how I got here.

letter to anyone

i may not be able to see into the future,
but it's the uncertainty crouching in every day
that makes me feel more and think more and know more.
i've come to understand that what i learned
by getting too drunk and living too hard and loving too fast
has been more valuable than the majority of five years
i spent being told over and over and over again,
"the world is out to get you."

cause yeah, the world is out to get me,
and i'll let it catch me.
i'll fall into its hands and let it hold me,
let it drop me, let it scrape me,
let it pick me up again and press its hands to my wound.
i love the world with all i got and it loves me right back.

it could love you, too, if you stepped down and yelled -
more to yourself than anyone else -
"i will never be perfect."
the world loves you and it hates perfection because
the truth is, perfection is ugly and you,
you with your features and your flaws
and your shades of grey and your broken heart
and your fire eyes are so beautiful -
never let anyone tell you otherwise.

what i've learned in the dark
has made the world glow,
and i can tell you with my heart, hands, mouth:
it is beautiful.

so get on your knees.
let someone in.
reach higher.
admit a fault.
drive somewhere.
lend a hand.
admit a victory.
drink that drink.
stop wearing that damn watch, and
press somebody against a wall,
take their face in your hands,
and kiss the hell out of those lips cause you know you want to, right, so don't deny it.
own yourself, own your story, own your life.
cause its the only thing you really have.

wild life

I grew up in the Cincinnati zoo.
I learned the alphabet from
aardvarks and spent lunch
lying with the lions,
stretching my neck and pondering
giraffes.
I tugged my brother's sleeve -
but how'd they get so tall? -
and he laughed.
they probably only eat
long, gangly things,
kinda like how flamingos
dine on pearly pink shrimp
and sloths can only handle
the slowest, most ponderous,
laboring, lumbering meals,
and anteaters - well, you know.
mom says the chimps drink
too much, but they look more fun
than the elephants, 'cause
who'd want to remember anything
forever, anyway?
a kid could get confused
growing up in a zoo.
there's the difference
between see-ya-later
alligators and in-a-while
crocodiles, which I always get
backwards, and they say
don't tap the glass
cause snakes like their naps
but who says they wanna sleep
their lives away?
sometimes
spending days in cages
and nights scaling fences
makes you forget which
is actually free.
that's why always I liked birds best -
I could imagine those clipped wings
one day
growing back.

taste buds

I can't decide if I like the taste...
it's metally, sweet
it's physically salty
it's like a spiced rum to my spirit.

There is a satisfaction I've known before,
in a different format
a new motivation
a taste I can get used to.