<center><table width="50%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><tr><td width="16.67%" bgcolor="#929292"> </td><td width="16.67%" bgcolor="#dfdf60"> </td><td width="16.67%" bgcolor="#df94ba"> </td><td width="16.67%" bgcolor="#c0c0c0"> </td><td width="16.67%" bgcolor="#e1e162"> </td><td width="16.67%" bgcolor="#b27575"> </td></tr><tr><td colspan="6" align="center">poetry is love</td></tr><tr><td colspan="6" align="center"><small>brought to you by the <a href="http://www.dutchfurs.com/~haze/islove/">isLove Generator</a></small></td></tr></table></center>
Empty Station by Me
I think we missed the train.
Subways tracks, even when empty,
sound like breaking bones.
We barreled down the escalator,
risking tipping forward and spraying
the landing with our brains.
We race-walked down U street.
I cough up different colored phlegm nuggets.
I could have lived perfectly without those 5 nervous cigarettes,
differentiated from ones I needed by the lack
of tight chest incentive, or 2-3 V street ice teas.
It was going to be a cold walk,
back to your travel bag so you could take your contacts out,
before they shriveled up into pointy plastic pasted to your eye.
If you were spry, we could have made it.
We could have jumped the turnstile, like when I was a kid,
this time without my mother paying for me
and without the guard though I know I was valid.
You tell me, if we were in Paris, we could stay in the station
till new trains roll in at 5am. We could sleep on the faux marble benches
sleep through the echoes till the night time ends. We’ll ride home.
I’d demand to sit forward because if I ride backwards at 5 am, I get sick.
Everyone will be on their way to work, we will look cracked out.
But we’re not in Paris and we are not going to be sleeping in empty train stations,
Even if we were in Paris, nothing would be done about the callous
developing on your retina and I don’t want to be in Paris.
I want a cab.
The Answers by Me
You are Chris Issack on worn vinyl,
playing in a house with its windows open,
blinds shut, that I walk by, 4am, every Thursday.
You are my alarm clock 7:30 Friday mornings.
Sometimes
you feel as heavy as wet flannel.
Sometimes,
you ring like stories that
accompany spontaneous mohawks.
Usually,
you’re only a story.
You are sweatshirt and fleece,
blankets, pillows, sheets.
You burn like gas station coffee on
an empty stomach.
You are frigid and I’m a big virginal whore.
You are a homicidal homosexual
in disguise and you are faking romance
in order to drag me away and kill me.
You are a packed bowl and a book of matches.
You have a face that’s dangerous to fall asleep with.
In general,
You are more important
than you think you are.
You are...
You are...
a skip in the record.
You crack and cave in my roof
when I’m drunk and
too restless to sleep.
You overdose me on
Chocolate Cadbury Creme Eggs.
You are a backyard
littered with red plastic cups
when the cops showed up
on someone’s birthday.
You are the house on Sunday
with my window broken and
luggage stacked
in the corner of the porch.
Distracted by a TV Star by Me
1.
Down the hall lives a guy our building refers to as the TV Star. He’s a geek who fell through the cracks, into public access television. He’s in hot pursuit of fame and obsession. He’s an insecure narcissist. He’s quickly driving me insane. Every morning, we leave at the same time. I try to not make eye contact, but neither of us possess the energy to lift our heads up in this too new Monday. I try to focus on a far away idea, like how my father taught me to try locked doors three times.
2.
At the housewarmings, birthdays, various events for retirements, he’s a reliable star sighting for the evening. He’s wiry, but huge when he stands unslouched, with a sunburn hiding under tan, creaky glasses, and eyes that justify the monologues he performs drunk, and leaning against refrigerators.
3.
The show is on Tuesday nights. I keep the volume low. I lock the door, draw the blinds with perfect porn procedure. I hide this infatuation well. I was separating my colors with Alice from 409 and she told me that right behind my dryer, my celebrity almost got evicted for doing unreligious things with the landlord’s daughter and never bothered to ask her name or age.
“He’s a 3 minute man.”
“He’s got an auditory fetish.”
“He likes to be intimate with little girls on Xanax to the sound of his own voice.”
I collect these stories like I collected rock star autographs and Magic cards when I was 13. I wondered if I remembered to set the tape and why does that kinderwhore always smell like French fires and rubber cement, and when was her daddy going to buy her some closed toe shoes.
4.
I dusted my apartment, I shined my ashtrays, I scraped the fan blades, I made baked goods. I paced a rut from the main room to my bedroom to my window to the main room to the bedroom to the window... I tried to think a reason to walk down that hall, knock on the door, say, “I work all day, I’m bored all day, do you want to have a drink, do you want to have a smoke, what do you want from me?” Would he cross his eyes and giggle at me? Would he quickly come into the hall, lock his door, and check it three times? But instead of seeking answers, I drank the beer I was saving in case of a bout with bravery. I was defeated before my super soft shirt and shiny tall shoes had a chance to execute a preemptive strike. I changed back into chocolate stained sweatpants and looked for something else to clean.
