Sometimes Lover (continued)

"Stop," she says. "Tell me something different."

Her demand falls flat, cold. She looks at him meaningfully. Although he is aware of this, he can not decipher the meaning. She plays with the long, delicate stem of her wine glass, almost takes it between her fingers, but then opts for water instead.

She brings the clear, full glass to her lips and drinks. He thinks she will stop after one mouthful, but she goes on. She raises the glass higher as she drinks, throws back her head so he can see her small, hard Adam's apple bobbing up and down as she swallows. He is troubled by this — the mechanics and pipes of her body, the things she can not hide with makeup or jewelry or clothing. The things that make her function, hold her alive. He feels as if it is something he shouldn't be seeing, but revels in being able to stare at it: the pale, taunt skin of the neck, the blue veins and bulging tendons.

She places the empty glass back on the table.

"I know this story already," she says. "I know it too well. It has a sad ending —"

"It doesn't have to have a sad ending."

"Yes, it does."

Pause.

"Tell me a story with a happy ending," she asks.

"I'm not good at that kind of story."

"What kind of writer are you, then?"

He hopes she didn't mean to put so much venom in her tone, but the fact that she did certainly means there was an intention to hurt. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he is hurt. She wounds him deeply with her sharp, careless words. He goes on asking for them, like some masochist.

"I'm a tragic writer, I suppose." He attempts sarcasm. "Both my life and work are tragedies."

"How unfortunate," she says neutrally.

He looks at the table, averting her stare.

"You haven't touched your wine."

"I don't like Italians."

"That's new."

"A lot of things have changed," she says. For a moment he thinks he hears her chocking back a sob. "You have no idea."

Plea (inspired by Modest Mouse and Listener)

I don't know what I'm chasing
I don't know your name
I never said that you should die
I just said that you might like it
I just suggested that you try it
Take it back if it ain't your thing
But maybe they'll give you
A store credit.

I've built up quite a reputation
For tearing down buildings
and seeing their bones
With the people in them.
I've built up quite a reputation
For accidental product placement
of beliefs. They're for everyone.
They're easy to use.

This town got smaller as I grew.
This cup got empty as I filled
myself. This house got colder,
but everyone's complaining about the heat.
How long until I can get out of bed
and say "Hold my head for me,
I am tired. I've been using my neck
for a while and I've even failed at that."

I missed the sign, apparently.
I have to play this game, apparently.
Truth is, I've tried and it's worked.
I just want you to want me on your own.
I think there'll be another sign.
I think you like me, too.
What it means is beyond me,
but it feels pretty nice.

I don't know what I'm chasing.
I've known your name for a while.
I've built up quite a reputation
For taking things out of context.
I've preached clarity before
and now I see that it's harder
for others to achieve. I have.
(most times)

Here's all I have to tell you:

"This is my personal space.
You are welcome to be in it, but
Understand that this means
That I need to be in yours, too.
I know that it takes a while
for anyone to allow this to another,
but I've grown enough to let
refusal be a high five for effort."

Bristol3

Have you been out on the downs lately?

Have you seen the crows there?

Maybe they are ravens.

I wouldn't know the difference.

Let's say they're ravens —

It sounds more literary.

I went jogging there last Tuesday

And noticed them,

All squat and ugly

In the long, wet grass.

They bob along awkwardly

Between the runners

And footballs and students.

Sometimes they croak —

I suppose that's to be expected

Of a raven.

Sometimes they fly,

Wings folded back —

A flight full of effort,

Quickly finished.

They are dispersed —

Just a handful of them —

Black specks in the green.

They are waiting for something,

Stationed there like bodyguards

On a landing pad.

Grant

An Italian Sonnet

The stubble only stuttering across
Your (sadly) uncleft chin. The mesa of a
Mole upon your neck, the mark of a lover
Surrendered to the beast. Your eyes agloss

With eager fear, transfixed on the horizon
Still. The net upon your skin, it sears
You to the bone. Legs thrash as death comes near.
Head pressed against the alter of my thighs,

You plead for your release, gripping ankles.
A chortled frenzy rises from between
Your grinding teeth. The apex of your horror:

A groan, contortion in weird angles.
All covered in a cold and sickened sheen,
All limp, you eye the open door.

Sleeping with Open Eyes

We used to play pretend

until one day it became real

The games, they stopped being fun

yet we continued on,

trying to capture our lost innocence

I Know That You Are Home

I know that you are home
when I hear you from
beyond the staircase and
you break my concentration with
the open heart of song;

and I listen like a man
who has spoken all his life

but never heard before.

untitled #3

this
primordial waterfall
sunken
ship
dry.

Penumbra

There one day appears a dull ache
in the form of a cold vertical burn
running the length of the windpipe,
as though autumn air was filling the lungs
after a long run, as though autumn
was filling the body with the frost
of a promised but not yet present winter.
It appears, settles with nettled spokes,
drags skin and hair down to mingle with the silent fall
of maple leaves and brown staghorn branches,
littering the ground under the soles of summer shoes
with a halfhearted reminder of cloudless light
and sun that did not just blind but warmed,
and a body that did not just walk inside of coats,
but inside freckled skin that, until sunset, lay on grass
to watch the purple bruise of darkness seep,
knowing of the ache to soon set in,
trying not to think about the darkness as bad,
because really all that nightfall is
is a shadow cast in slow motion.

Bristol2

Nose clogged with cold

Cheeks flushed from the walk's mild effort

Shoulders borne down with books

I bite into my apple

The fruit's firm flesh

Tears and cracks open

Sweet, tangy pulp fills my mouth

Crisp juices burst and

Tickle my gums

Out of breath

I inhale through my mouth

Opened wide

A generous smile

I taste Autumn air

I breathe apple

It's my day and I feel like posting.

Schoolyard Tracheotomy

I blame all of you for what I've become.
Please notice that I use "blame" and not
"attribute" or whatever the fuck else
would be complimentary.

I blame you. and you. and you.
and you.
and you. and you. and you. and you.
and you.
and you. and you and you you you and you
and you.

especially you.