from a couch, dead leaves

heaving

gasping for breathe while every leaf-raked emotion blows around my head again, kicked up, stirred, perfect-compartment piles shuffled through, kicked to the wind by your decision to enter again

through the front door

a home purposefully redecorated, walls torn down, your face not found, closets cleaned, memories unforgiven, now, NOW, you walk through the front yard on an autumn afternoon seeking refuge whilst destroying order

did you see the sidewalk?

what was in front of you?

that’s what led to tight lipped moments together

your inability to understand the means

an end

which means

you have no understanding of what this means, implications, outcomes, your finality, it’s in sight

again

you need to be told twice

don’t think

it’s alright

i’ll use a blower next time, and burn the remnants of early spring’s green hope

from a porch, neighborhood dreams

it’s real

that sensation that starts at the fingers of a forgotten friend and finds its way through you, holding hands wishing the sway would turn to a grasp and lead to rolling in freshly watered grass, overcoming discomfort in the name of passion, spontaneity

finding buttons and zippers to undo and divide, blissfully panting, newfound pride found in rhythmic pulses leading to shouts of freedom, letting go of every inhibition, primal yelps breaking neighborhood night silence in a park down the street from where our parents lived

and once loved

they had fake smiles and handshakes, birthday parties and shared steaks sizzling on wedding present grills pouring friday night puffs of community into styrofoam streets

neighbor coveted neighbor coveted neighbor, swapping stares as sundresses flipped up while planting perennials along front lawn borders, a tasteful fence

fears were multiplied when we started to subdivide and ran away from what made us great

what’s real?

the feel of coming back to plastic childhood haunted backyards, and parading in twenty year old libido with the next door pigtails you always wanted

from a couch, back in pocket

i packed the information deep in the crease of a car seat waiting for him to return from his midnight run to the south-side of town where whispers were captured and drowned in the effervescent moon glow

building intensity until climax and i should change my shorts before i return unless you can convince them the squirm in my heels and kicks of my legs are due to an innocent grabbing of my sinister stick plucked and peeled from the family tree i fell out of two weeks before the beginning of jail night stays

i commit the crime, and they saw it that way, wishing wicked thoughts would welcome whatever it is you drink before toxic conversations turn to fists breaking flesh and “i hate you’s” that are healed by mornings aching eyes, rolling over and smelling thighs until you realize it’s the thought of disappointment you dispose of in accidental dumpster fires where once and again, forever, and never will my rod bend when i capture a glimpse of your stagnant water wishing it had taken a left instead of a right down the middle, play it safe bullshit life without a fight to call me to help during hellfire deliveries, packages banged and rearranged wondering which doorstep you live behind

i knew waiting for you would spin into this

the information is there

deep in your seat

take a look

from a porch, i’m a lot of things

i can be an asshole

power playing, guilt laying, asshole

underneath intentions i grasp for attention, working the math

this might shock most of you

you’re probably right

yet, i know my thoughts, the ones where i stand upright casting line after line into shallow waters working to pull you to shore

i didn’t say i was an asshole

i said, i can be

i can be a lot of things

i can be self-loathing, nothing stacking up to the cups everyone else seems to know how to fill

i can be charming, the right words colliding into endearment

i can be genuine, listening with truth, wrestling with vulnerability

i can be manic, organized pieces finding their home simultaneously, multi-task

i can be sad, tears

i can be shy, hiding

there’s more, dimensions, corners to peek in, both you and i

acknowledgement, a decision to embrace our totality

i can be an asshole

depends on how hard you look

from bed, bleeding eyes

waiting, compromised time frames

caught between preconceived scenarios of what the night should pursue, and where we want to go

they’ll play for us

whether we stand or sit

the stage is lit, previously independent

thoughts troubled, now projected

seeking an understanding

what’s first? will you open up for me?

develop another sense of how to relate to emotions displaced under false shadows cast by fluorescent lights flooding our ability to capture reality

we’re all finding a way

ripple affect today

is ripple affect tomorrow

is constant borrowing of joy to drowned sorrow in friendship glances assuring me i’m ok

we’ll wait together

waiting for them to start

our paths from there

will disappoint us

if we fail to listen

forgetting we belong

from bed, battling breaths

sensing the silence

we weren’t certain which way to go

uncomfortable triggers

he remembered my name, it had been a week

since we first met

a delightful stretch of the imagination as i nodded

right

i knew you when?

these first three months will be curious

then, i’ll forget phone calls and judge

after that?

expiration dates tattooed on my eyes

glazed over

you’ll learn to interrupt me

leave without warning

find a friend of a friend and move on

why she’s still here, i’ll never know

mystery, stoke the desire

i change my own voice, during daydream conversations in rooms with screens, trains of thought wrecking

rejuvenated with strangers wide eyes, those will close, taken for granted, grab a chair, remember i once loved someone who looked like you

they just nodded, even when they didn’t know the way

my questions annoyed you

then why bother?

why’d you get up?

point found

underneath

the hush of a scuttling librarians skirt

from bed, i see, and hate, him

distraction static pouring from mouths

too drunk, too tired, too far from the south

tread light, dinner is served

it’s saturday night, come hear the good word

paper exchange in light of day

leads to paper exchange under the grey…clouds moving and stretching thin across the sky, accidentally allowing us to see heaven; the sun

on earth, above

we’ve certainly done a number below, gas fuels flow, pushing our smoke stacks out of sight, money made on pretending you’re right

thankfully, ocean depths live alone

drones, internally combust

but, it’s saturday night

‘who needs that stuff, i have had enough’

say the pock-faced-aged-ignorant assholes who own this street, in closets with tie racks, kids need to know what to buy on dangerous holidays, right?

excuse his persona shift, blowing steam?, safe jumping from fuck-up faith cliffs, he’ll find their bed

not before letting the streets know he came, it’s his window to lean in, she sleeps on blue pills, the children’s eyes dizzy themselves to coma with rectangles and orange dust fingers

he guzzles, wanders, ‘i don’t weave, you move outta my way’, ripped yellow-shirt slobs, like him, say before his inflated eyes drive down her blouse

cleaned up in the day, presentable

kitchen table confidence

sleeping only after a drink of numb juice and arguments with his favorite facebook profile pic

it’s where he likes to stick, people with mirror faces, beach sand embraces, making all the power he has pounding sidewalks more noticeable

disgusting disgrace of a well dressed dickhead thinking he can dance because he heard these 90s tunes come from his gay brothers bedroom, the one he never calls

he’ll make it home

sleeping in his underwear, she’ll pick up his clothes in the morning

the kids think it’s his coffee needs

it’s bandages, covering where he bleeds

eyes wrapped in goose-step bandanas

a self-created world vision, leading to distracted-distorted static pouring from his mouth, into nothing

that’s being threatened

and he has resources

he’ll use

not before

another round