Freed

This blueberry muffin’s all I’ve got to eat.
Yeah, I’ve got some Advil,
but I’m trying to keep it for next week.
It’s getting hard because
I’ve got a headache every day.
I can’t tell if it’s from
being awake too long,
or maybe it’s the stress,
or maybe it’s that I can’t get
a decent bite to eat
in this place.
Or maybe it’s the
arsenic in the water.

Constantly dehydrated,
wondering what to do.

It’s all getting convoluted now;
don’t know if I’m in a minor or major.
I don’t know if this will ever be a hit,
but if it is, it’ll be a better recording
‘cause I can do better than this.
That’s the truth, that’s the truth:
I can do so much better than her.

So give me a one;
give me a two;
give me a three;
give me a four.

From 10,000 feet,
roads are empty
scratches on cupboards
from an unskilled boy;
houses, dust to be swept
under his bed.

From 1,000 feet,
trees are characters,
individuals separated
from overspilled paint;
cars show us
lite-brite gridlock.

From 100 feet,
faces are shaded;
hair colors, the foliage
of our dying hope;
smiles, the bags we hang
over our heads.

From 10 feet,
your eyes tempt mine,
only a month or 12
since last perusing you;
our sweaty palms,
the symbols of our nerves.

From two feet,
on two feet,
off two feet.

Now boarding:
unknown destination.
Is there enough fuel
to get us there?
Has your chin recovered?
I rubbed you fucking raw,
made my mark;
you did, too.

The moon keeps hiding
behind that old cedar
and this eastbound engine,
a pendulum rocking you to sleep.

Hush, my baby;
don’t you cry.
One day at a time,
and we can make it out alive.

Can’t remember where I was last week
or who I was with.
Wake up, false alarm,
roll back over again.
This mirror’s as much a window;
there’s no familiar faces outside.

You can’t tiptoe goddamn anywhere
when these leaves cover the ground,
so just watch and inhale
our gasoline-powered America.

We pray that someday this humming stops,
craving nothing more than silence.
It’s the honesty of the open road,
the dusty Plains, and the setting sun.
Walk til your soles are bare,
calves clenched tighter;
now the planet gives us power
to waste ourselves away.

Manual labor dusk to dawn.
Sleep away half our days,
and in traffic’s where we think,
or text, or turn it up.

It reminds us if we don’t remember,
it was never there at all.

And all we’re really wanting
is for every sound to cease.
It’s as truthful as a gunshot
or U.S. hand grenade.
Crimson as my blood is,
you can bet hers is, too,
but this photo and caption
is all she ever knew.

Bottomless cup of coffee is a misnomer
‘cause I just reached the bottom.
Sure, I can replace what once was;
there’s an end, nonetheless.
And is it really the same cup?
Is each refill evolutionary?
Did I change with the last drop?
Is the flavor still the same?

We could spend our lives asking
why we were subjected to this,
what we did to deserve it,
and what was wrong with us.
But it’s common courtesy
to cheers to our bullshit
when our comrades agree
there’s nothing left to say.

Life is an all-I-can-eat buffet,
not all-I-want-to-eat.
I’m constipated with the knowledge
my predecessors deemed relevant.
What’s left to learn?
Are my thoughts revolutionary?
I’m standing on the shoulders of giants,
but I’m afraid of the heights.

We could spend our lives asking
why we were subjected to this,
what we did to deserve it,
and what was wrong with us.
But it’s common courtesy
to cheers to our bullshit
when our lovers agree
there’s nothing left to say.

Do you believe anything you read
that you wrote prior to March 22nd,
and did you keep those postcards?
Do we all ask the mirror how it came to this,
or is it just me, longing for the futures our past once promised?

We could spend our lives asking
why we were subjected to this,
what we did to deserve it,
and what was wrong with us.
Or we could just fucking live.

We could spend our lives asking
why we were subjected to this,
what we did to deserve it,
and what was wrong with us.
But it’s common courtesy
to cheers to our bullshit
when everyone agrees
there’s nothing left to say.

Our star still flickers in the evening sky
despite the last few nights.
There’s a glow in the west
where the sun, she sets,
to remind me where you lie.
Understand where you been,
understand where you are;
said what you needed to say.
But I know in your heart,
although it ain’t today,
you will wish you stayed.

We danced in New Orleans
to the jazz at the House of Blues.
When I got home, I knew
exactly what I needed to do.

Your family could see it;
you could, too, though I was a little concerned.
Not with you, baby, only myself,
looking in the mirror,
“How is this real, a saint like you
with a common man like me?”
But I knew in your words
when you kept me assured
that you were here to stay.

Trace your footsteps in my parents’ house:
thick, chalk outline.
Choke and stab, grasping for chance,
sullen, defeated acceptance.
Nevermind where you been,
nevermind where you are now;
I don’t need you today.
It’s an obstacle course;
I’m a still-dying corpse,
alive through modern machines.

I know you loved me like I did,
like I did love you.
(You’re a sink of love.)
I know you loved me like I do,
like I do love you.
I know you love me like I did,
like I did love you.
I know you love me like I do,
like I still love you.

The strongest woman found a stronger man,
unconsciously becoming an ear in tin can,
a child, leashed, dragged behind mother;
not a man, just your former lover.

It was fate that we began.
You followed me in your white van
from the Great Lakes to the Sooner State,
but we could never relate.

We found this love was right,
just not the place or time.

So we fought for the feeling we couldn’t trace
in an attempt to force what we cannot replace.
Losing reality, my Juliet,
to sleepless nights in sheets of sweat.

We molded ourselves in an egg.
It’s beginning to crack, a temporary shell,
and as the sun makes its circuit,
we pierce through its tapered skin.

Sunrise, a new day’s begun.
Sunset, remembrance of what’s to come.

A single Sol, almighty, shining
for herself, yet for all.
We’re all pinnacles and inspirations,
beacons of autonomy and dignity.

Sunrise, focus yourself on today.
Sunset, there is no wrong way.

Let it grow,
let it burn;
it is what we’ve earned.

Let it fade,
let us see
what is will not always be.

Let it go,
let it burn;
it is what we’ve learned.

Let it fade,
let us see
what is will not always be.

The freight train whistles good morning, good night,
and heartbreak sounds closer than she should.
Wanderers stole the key some time ago;
this fucker’s rusty locket’s long since lost.
In suburbs, sleepless roll from right to left,
like April’s ceaseless segue into May.

Did you move on that way?
Did my dusk begin your day?

Walk hazy, barren streets at 2AM
of the dispensable town you call home,
paved with potholes and buried, jaded dreams.
Beyond, stars bleed, stripes fade into grey.
Our heart beats beneath hardened soles:
each of these exhales, cherished relief.

Do you still breathe that way?
Does his kiss begin your day?

You’ll never be so damned essential
to keep this lucky Earth from spinning,
so why has mine stopped?

You’ll never be so damned essential
to keep this lonely Earth from spinning,
so why has mine stopped?

Candlelight glow of street lamps
trace where we’ve been,
where we’re going,
where we’ll always be.

Watch the Midwest awaken
on Thanksgiving morning,
as some god raises his flashlight:
a fusion we can never harness.

Fly towards the sunrise,
the contrast heightened;
the warmth of the horizon,
an embrace with my drinks.

For a moment, we’re just pinpricks,
some fading memory of
that place
we thought we wanted to see.

And I still cherish the kisses
that I’ve lost,
but I’ve since washed away all the taste
of airport bathrooms
and old apartments.

We all deserve the love
that we’re only really given
for a few pages of our lives.
When our biographies are written,
they’ll miss the happy hours
in the corner back at Mitch’s,
where to us, it’s always Friday,
and Midori is always served
with heart-baring, thought-provoking,
endless theory laced with chatter,
smiles dampened with these beers and
self-deprecating sense of humor.

What else is there to do
when I spent six years on two degrees
in the fields of
high blood pressure and
heart palpitations?

What else is there to do
when I spent a year in an ashtray
whose intent was
not to steal my soul?
I assure you of that.

So I’ll blanket my mind
with familiar tunes
and smooth brews.
At couch end, 2am,
this clock ticks,
and my heart kicks
blood through my veins.
And the moonlight
whispers
goodnight.

Sunrise paints the foothills

from my seventh story studio.

Suited by 8 AM;

clocked out by 9.



Footprints frozen to the shore,

they linger through the tide.

I’ll drown in the Pacific

chasing my last rites.



And I need to cut the string

from my poor, penniless pendulum.



My window always wanders west,

and my mirror shows me where I am.

But my callouses remind me

where I’ve been 

on my way

to where we are.

I hope you scar.



Portland’s just a passing feeling

between 2011 and 2012.

This pub housed us both,

our pints merely months apart.



And Franny taught me how to swim,

her eyes tattooed on my chest,

while I remind her how to drink,

leaving bruises as I sink.

We both need to cut our strings
from our poor, penniless pendulums.



My window always wanders west,

and my mirror shows me where I am.

But my callouses remind me

where I’ve been 

on my way

to where we are.

I hope you scar.

Lake Erie, Michigan,

mouths agape.

Aurora on the horizon:

a beaming blanket.

This stratus winter

extends through May.



A temperate skyline

of summer shades,

Cleveland shines

in your collection

that will never

be complete;

nothing of yours

ever will.



Lake Erie, Michigan,

vodka veins.

Rearview steals you:

a human handshake,

an airplane echo

within my frame.



A familiar rustle:

our velcro thighs

in the sheets

of your new bedspread

that will never 
feel my body;

nothing of yours

ever will again.



My window always wanders west,

and my mirror shows me where I am.

But my callouses remind me

where I’ve been

on my way

to where you are.

I hope you scar.

Let’s be honest with each other just this once.
From the porch of your former house,
with your sleeves hanging
off your shoulders—
maybe I’m dramatizing
a bit too much.

But my memories are vivid,
like paintings in my mind
of every solemn, silent second,
each word we left behind.

From the first time that I met you
to this humid summer night,
oh, I couldn’t stop thinking about your face,
and when you first told me you might love me,
and you told me you wanted to kiss me.
God, won’t you kiss me?

Well, I’m all over it now,
so where do we go from here?

We watched Flava Flav on your TV.
We were in your living room;
I had my arm around you.
It was a summer day at the beginning of June.

If I could go back now, I’d change everything.
If I could go back now, I’d make it the movie,
and we could quote Carpenters songs
until the break of dawn.

If I could go back now, I’d make it the movie.

I’d turn around; I’d walk back to your porch.
With a smile, I’d knock on your door.
I’d walk in, and I would kiss
every inch of your skin.

Instead, it was over before we
ever had a chance to begin.

These polaroids are fading,

turning up at the corners,

cover my fridge, front door,

my mirrors:
 A captured motive

of unchained emotion,

a moment of moments

as hollow as the last.



Her love’s a shooting star:

celestial, faded, forgotten.



But I’m okay,

I’m alright.

I made it through;

I’m in flight,

and when I wake

in the morning,

I breathe.



Now you sleep but never dream

of places that you’ve seen,

the faces all familiar,

the feeling wearing thin.

Pieces of this puzzle

broken, brittle bits,

lost sight of the image

in coughing, shaking fits.



You’re drunk on wine and wisdom

as I sing these words to you.



But you’re okay,

you’re alright.

You made it through

these brake lights,

and now you wake

in the morning

relieved.



We’re widows in our webs,

praying, pleading for peace.

Our shades stay drawn

to the sunspot streets.

Clippings from the timelines,

letters, and pay phones,

you were sweet on me,

like I was sweet on you.



She turned her back in stride;

you kept your eyes on mine.



And we’re okay,

we’ll rewrite.

We’ll make it through,

so hold tight.

And when we wake

in the morning,

we’re freed.



We are freed.

When I die,
bury me with no coffin
so that I may give back
what I have taken.

Then, the ones I loved
can breathe the oxygen
from that which
my remains have fertilized.

Let them love,
even when they lie.

Let them live,
even when I die.

I don’t remember
how I saw your face so clearly.
We were out of the city,
a couple miles from any house.
The evening was black as oil;
pulled off in the grass,
lights shone ahead,
reflecting off the dry, brown leaves
tiptoeing across the road.
The song on the radio
was distorted, the vocals garbled.
Your eyes were wide
and thoughtful.

Our vacations are in postcards.
The sun is setting in two dimensions.
Our vacations are in postcards,
and they don’t have room for us there.

“No one will ever love you
as much as I do right now.”
I said, pulse quickening.
Your lips curled upward slightly.
Did you respond?
If so, I can’t recall the words.
Your breasts heaved with every breath;
your cheeks were eager to be touched.
Your fingers were a jigsaw piece
that fit perfectly in mine,
a wispy cloud in my blue sky,
the dot on my i.

Our vacations are in postcards.
The waves are crashing on a cardboard shore.
Our vacations are in postcards,
and they don’t have room for us there.

We were shaken from
the naïve daydream
that we had shared,
but that moment felt
more real and honest
than anything since.