I liked you way before
before anyone else thought
that you were someone worthwhile.
I think of you in the quiet days
but truth be told, every day is a quiet day
when I no longer fight off the raucous buzz
of your name, a neon sign, in dark alleyways.
My mind, the warm cocoon
Embracing the tides
Pulling the moon.
Pushed your hipbones, from my lie
evaporated, into the sky.
Warm thoughts, cold memories
I chose to accept and to create mores
Indecisive into incomplete
We lumbered onto twice conquered shores.
I decided to remember the good parts
Even though
the good parts were always false starts
The false starts lingered in procrastinated hearts.
I sabotaged those halcyon days
I unwittingly vilified your character
If I seek to utter your name
I just don’t think it’ll ever be the same.
What are you doing up this early? I work shift work. I’m on the day shift right now.
Don’t you know that shift work will give you cancer? It’s not really a concern of mine.
Do you prefer blue skies or black skies? I can’t compare. They both serve a different purpose. Blue skies and sunlight allow me to be the watcher, the voyeur. But when the skies are black, I’m the star (so to speak).
What’s the best part about being the moon? I suppose it’s the flow of it, the cycle. I don’t have to be the same every day. People expect me to fluctuate and to change, and I really enjoy that freedom. And the tides. I love the tides.
Do you ever feel jealous of the sun? That’s silly.
Ok, does the sun ever have any personal problems with you? Umm, can we move on please?
What does an eclipse feel like? Hmm, I suppose it feels like prom night. It’s pretty special, but at the same time, kind of superficial.
Do you have a dark side? Ha, don’t we all?
an underwhelming summer
an overwhelming fall,
what a treat, what a treat.
an under-ripe tomato
an overcooked green bean
what a feast, what a feast.
long underwear
an overcoat,
what a night, what a night.
under pressure
overtime
what a week, what a week.
— — —
underblankets
ovaltine
what a treat.
When you eat your collard greens
you’ll know what “the good life” means.
When you eat your crunchy kale
it’s nutrition’s holy grail.
When you eat your broccoli
pretend you eat a little tree.
When you eat asparagus,
you piss some odourous piss.
When you eat your watercress
organic always tastes the best.
When you want your fresh swiss chard
simply pluck it from your yard.
When you eat arugula
you will feel oh so bourgeois.
When you eat a big fat salad
it can’t help but please your palate.
So when you want to treat your genes
with all essential vitameeeens
put down all those Krispy Kreme’s
and eat some more of those leafy greens.
I couldn’t decide if she was beautiful. She was lean, well structured, generously freckled. I watched her flip her hair back and forth, throwing her head back jubilantly as she laughed. She giggled, scrunched up her face in surprise, gesticulated wildly as she talked about things that she was interested in. Her cinnamon freckled arms waved along with the intonations of her sing-song voice.
Here was a specimen of human being that was filled to the brim with passion; she regaled story after story of her recent experiences, usually peppered with mention of her wonderful (and also rather wealthy, as she made clear with a gentle and surreptitious addendum in her narrative) Brazilian beau, whom I also imagined had the same bubbling hot lava quality as this girl. Her energy was not only limitless, but would compound over time. Being in her presence felt like running a marathon, and I was not equipped for the long haul.
I drank my beer faster, desperately, furtively. She was like an itch I wanted to scratch.
This was my first time in Hope. I had heard that it was a bit of “have-not” town — the number of vacant storefronts and rotted-out roofs confirmed this to be true. Normally this wouldn’t make me uneasy, but for some reason, this town gave me the creeps. It felt like a town with a secret — the type of secret that makes a room fall silent as soon as you enter. The type of secret that doesn’t make eye contact.
We had rented a car with a hatchback, one where the seats folded down flat so we wouldn’t have to worry about finding a campsite. We parked that night at a turn-off, right by the highway. I was anxious to get inside the car and lock the doors. After we set up our beds, I popped in my earplugs, locked the doors and fell asleep.
I woke up a few hours later. It was still dark, and my hand was itchy. Mosquitoes, I thought. As I began to scratch, another spot on my shoulder began to itch. Then a spot on my leg, my back, my stomach, and my foot. It felt like the itch was travelling through my central nervous system. I scratched and scratched, trying to keep thoughts of shingles, hives, and poison nerve gas out of my head. At this point, I looked over at T___. He was violently scratching himself in his sleep.
What happened next could have been a dream. Or it could have been my tinnitus ringing in my ears. But I heard, through my earplugs, a choir singing two powerful chords, and we were sinners about to receive our judgement.
The first time was you and I, and two of your friends. I think I gave it around three weeks to sink in, that we were going to do this, and that it was going to possibly change me.
You practically gave me a powerpoint presentation on what to expect and what not to fear. You said, it can’t be any worse than a night of drinking, and all that much more economical. Instead of eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, we’ll create memories, map out neuronal connections to mean something.
It was hazy inside and out, but when it happened, the current rushed throughout me and before the waves were about to break, I reached for your hand. The neuronal floodgates crashed opened as my sweat poured out of my pores into yours. Our fingers trembled within our grasp, holding on to that everlasting feeling.
Your eyes opened deeply, and my heart fell into the black abyss. I felt warm, but the next morning all I could feel were the cold tremors pulsating through my extremities. I suppose it was naive of me to think that I would somehow never be cold again, but we all have our firsts.
“Do you have any gum?” she asked me at 3 o’clock this morning. She was wearing a pair of lace shorts, a bikini top, a denim vest, and a bowler hat. I was wearing a brown t-shirt (cotton) and no makeup. Her hair was as shiny and blonde as Taylor Swift’s, and her eyes were open. My eyes were open too, but they were only open like the eyes of one who was not well acquainted with the night. I said no, I don’t have any gum. I wished I did though — her teeth needed protection from that unyielding complusion to grind them to dust. She turned and asked each of my friends, who all gave the same response. As she walked away from us, I popped a piece of my hair into my mouth and started chewing. I do that when I get nervous.
