There is a man
living in my bathroom
and I dare not ask
his name,
or why he sits
and watches
while I brush my teeth
in the mornings.
And I know he is there
as I leave
and turn off the light
for he laughs–
his laughter the sound
of my footsteps.
she plays the piano
but tells me not to listen
and I write her poetry
which I tell her
she can’t read
this is all we are
two individual souls
in a mundane world
where we watch TV
from different chairs
and we are both
unexplainable
but understand
one another
just the same
this normalcy
of our interactions
balancing out our lives
but when she plays
all I hear is Mozart
and when she looks
at my words
all she sees is…
Westland, Michigan–July 5th, 7 something in the morning, way too early for summer vacation. The air was putrid, filthy smelling like the freshman locker room in high school. Humidity was hanging above the ground thick enough to grab hold of, but since no rain had fallen in more than a week; the grass was little more than detritus. All of these factors left me questioning why I had come to Michigan in the first place.
There was the girl that as of the day before I wasn’t speaking with, the escaping my parents by not returning home after my second year, and it was a different place then Kansas. I swished these thoughts around in my head like a mouthful of Listerine, trying to work out the kinks left over from the Fourth party, while I drove to my summer warehouse job. Curious, I pushed the temperature button on the digital clock/gauge in my car I sighed, 81–Christ.
In a Hollywood studio
an actress is preparing
to fall in love for
the third time that day.
and make up is concerned
that her complexion
is too paisley under lights.
and the director is worried
she’ll drop a line and they
will have to re-shoot.
and her would be lover
is in his trailer drinking Perrier
practicing his smirk.
so when he runs into her
and she looks into his eyes
and their lips meet
in a perfect fast action close up
everything will go smoothly.
Back in my world,
there is a half-finished soda
staining a half-hearted poem
to a girl I haven’t met.
And if a camera would pan
I avoid visiting nursing homes
so I don’t have to see faces
of the forgotten turned to dregs.
A place where orderlies
distribute medication, I imagine
more placebo than medicinal.
And men follow me, while I walk
the halls, their eyes black,
staring from sunken sockets.
They are little more than shells,
hollow bodies, souls extracted
and disregarded as soiled linen.
I see myself with them, bounded
by steel and wheels, dripping drool,
my dentures on the night stand.
Their mouths open and close trying
to tell me about life, as though,
it will rejuvenate the ones they lost.
The first time I made love,
was with a Guju girl who held
the world in opal eyes.
She taught me to pay attention
to the difference of a smile
and to savor delicate breaths.
Each muscle contraction meant
something different under a touch
and to touch without feeling
was as powerful as feeling
without touch.
We learned more in one night
exploring each other’s bodies
then years of reading about
erogenous zones and stimulation.
And as the sun peaked under
the curtains to surprise us,
she taught me a woman
is an ocean, and to win her
