from a porch, i can’t help myself

waiting

pounding veins make tense my head wondering about the deeds of the undead and feeding the parts of me kept secret aside from slips in stories entertaining you when i can’t help myself, i have to share the tales of accidental youth stabbings in a seventh grade classrooms with reading rugs, where i first learned i liked looking up skirts and reading about drug addled football players with initial names and grimaces that make a pubescent boy snarl back waiting for someone to look my way with the wrong expression. ms. p. was her name, with aqua blue cotton panties bulging with a pad a few days out of the month, i thought she knew i was looking. i didn’t get the implications, frontal lobe still developing and deciding which hand i should use while gripping half grown appendages alone in a poster dressed bedroom where all wonderings cascaded before falling asleep to the hum of cds and fm radio. “jane says, i’m goin’ away to spain”, i want to go with her, explore the pavement where foreign voices are home, where i can’t breathe ecstasy air, your dim lit streets force me to remember my way to you, it’s where we started, in stinky sand pits clutching for life through mud puddle remains of those who walked the earth without having to maintain the natural flow of carbon inhaling carbon

from a porch, plastic boats

drawing plastic boats with water color paints on paper meant for your goodbye letter

it’ll only mean we’re better

i set it on the kitchen counter, leftover dinner and half-washed dishes

letting go

of complete control

a shallow bowl, filled with forgotten goals

knowing soon, we’ll split our souls

sailing off, to separate-corner roles

falling into, shallow holes

tunnels dug, by emotions moles

we’ve lost our way

will we find it tomorrow?

worn out maps

we’ll borrow

to sail back

to still-water coves

to pictures i drew

when we knew

it was real

that boat on paper

came to life

i love you

came to life

from the porch, feeling the need to wonder

i miss you

every night

wondering why this break

seems necessary

escaping discipline

wandering eyes

undressing disguises

while truth waits underneath the prehistoric wings of a sycamore tree

posted thick and high, between red rock slot canyons, a graying sky, whispering afternoon breezes drop, absorbed in dark water ripples

carrying songs

changing sounds, voices compound

still water waits

pooled to welcome mornings chill

from a stool, i observed a stream and kept seeing the same thing

how does it end?

who really wants to know?

it’ll only destroy pathways where we push, pull, and grow

flip to the last page?

no idea why

purpose, a repeated ritual sky

what do we seek while meandering our way to a maintained middle

there is no finale, finally

no diner scenes

no loved characters dying in back alleys

no dimming of lights

saying goodbye

choppers heading east, there’s more pain waiting at home

seems hopeless

nothing to achieve

deal again

more cards up my sleeve

milestones, markers, bar mitzvah, nuts dropping, transformative moments to those who notice

those partaking

those affected

i write without guard rails

i write to tell our tales

i write to disguise us as one another

i write to separate pain in the egg where we developed and begged, to begin again

without an end

this can’t be it

i’m still here

holding onto a number

waiting in line

from a porch, the answer my friend…

your job is to ask tough questions

we’ve been taught not to answer

someone from the other side

breathing in and out cancer

cells multiplying rapidly, empathy paralyzed

perspectives dizzy when i turn my head

stay forward

horse parades

don’t spook the hatred

hoof beats pound forgotten dirt, demanding attention

it’s used up

passion poured out to disposes the drifters who were led without knowing

another path exists

home life excuses

tempting nooses

hanging tree galleries

branches bending, we’re all grafted

one seed

breaking, with the slightest breeze brought across seas, caught in wind pouring from your inquiries, we forgot how to address, critical diseases

critical, we need them

complete your task

i’ll formulate a response, they’ll never know

i tried

from a porch, get in, again

i leaned with one leg up against wooden nail-riddled boards resting on a metal pole-shed, no one within miles, we just crossed the kansas line, i lit a cigarette and handed one to you

you were crouched, distant, without mind

pulling your hair back

one side at a time

squinted eyes

releasing with a puff, you rise

our song came on

we sang along

“stand here, (k)nowhere we’ve been

wrestling with sorrow that begs us to begin

again

running, finally a purpose

driven, beginnings always alter us

i won’t ever drift this far away again

i won’t tell you it’s you

it’s always me, again

pushing you away

hoping that you’ll stay, again”

we inhaled, looked down, and back up, averting eyes

“caverns of this sorrow i can’t escape

i see you up there…i can’t relate

come rescue me from this ruined fate

creaaaaaaaate

my morning stars…”

our eyes glaze

“…a moon that guides, it’s never near or far, a spiral destined to show us where we are

souls

crashing cars

that intertwine

reasons

we can’t decline

just stand here

let you be mine

again

again

and again”

your face turns to the car

“who’s drivin’?”

from a porch, fingers felt for the first time

her fingers felt funny for the first time

sometimes they’d make me laugh

mostly with one extended behind my father’s back

he always thought you were sweet

his word

not mine

i knew how that would twist and be redefined, years of college classes exercised

more so, listening when people speak

this “funny”, a newly-felt-defensive word, unease, an end near

prior, there were long strokes, wrist to unattended biceps, chin to cheek bone, i’d wince, you’re the only one who could invade my space, alone, trying to concentrate on the intention, not the sensation, a grown up tone, not teenage moans

those would come

i’d have to make sure it was you

cat-scratch back, i pretended to nap

you know i never could

this isn’t a longing poem

i’ve written enough of those

what could have been

what will be

will be

your movie ending reminded me of that

que sera

sera

sera

que?

they felt funny because i finally understood, you were connecting without a finality goal, prolonging the pull of unseen forces, no remorses

they felt funny, because i finally felt, how you feel