I’ve tried to write you a poem more than twenty times. I’ve never gotten further than a terrible first stanza. That is trite and tired. I always said to myself that I’d wait until the last minute to confirm something. Like when winter comes to soon. Or feeling the springs on the bed actually cutting against my back, before throwing that old mattress out. I met you under circumstances outside of my control. A stuttering fool. Periodically ridden with drool.

The rain of winter never really seemed to come. Except on our first date. I chose not to prepare and you looked beautiful as the public locked themselves away. Smudge rain like ink rubbed by a hand falling in waves. A thick fog plus a drizzle.

It felt like days passed by. And I let you leave to catch the bus and I walked around that night for hours. Reluctant and sputtering like a fool until I found a beer to speak with. And in it I said, “don’t jinx yourself but I think you found something special at the end of this year.”

Lovely day couldn’t have had it any other way do you know that feeling you get when things are going swimmingly i got it i took hold of it i don’t know if it was when i was driving or when i was at san gregorio state beach she said something lovely something simple like ‘i feel comfortable with you when you are driving’ something like that and it turned us into mirrors and in her i could see me and in me she could see her and nothing mattered except that monday drive nothing the beach was a thought nothing planned i could have driven anywhere but the drive was with her and the night was with her no distractions no ringing phones no silence  except the ones we created i held her for a good while and became slightly stoic she is good to hold and now i’m here jotting down notes of something to good to keep bottled up i’lll admit it here but no where near what i actually dare i like Lauren i think she likes me and i had the loveliest day. 

‘I placed four dollars on the table for a three dollar beer, and in return I gained a sadness I could have found in any other place I have ever been.’

“She said, ‘I could have brought grapes!’ ‘What kind?’ he responded. She gave a slight hesitation. As if the response would mean the fruitful beginning or the fateful end. ‘Green…’ ‘Those are the only kind of grapes I’m interested in.’”

I knew what you were thinking. Leaving. It’s not a guess. It’s a fact. You were where you were when you were twenty-two.

And I was anywhere but home.

A thousand plus miles from right-mindedness. Hopeful. Pushing away. Keeping my actual feelings close to chest and nothing mattered. Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered. Felt like I was dying. Nothing mattered. Absolutely. Nothing mattered.

Gave you a reason. To skip and swirl around it. I gave that presumption. You had a better time to be had. I’m not saying you were, “left and leaving” you just left because of feelings.

I’ve been down that road a million times in my mind. Say it ain’t so’s. Keep me here’s. But it’s nothing I did. It’s nothing you tried. It’s simply time. Let those things roll passed. Let those areas die fast.

I’m not sure I know anything about music. Or keeping friends. Or holding steady relationship. Or being cadaverous. But I try hard at all of them.

I like to bathe in the summer sun in the winter and keep my skin milky pale. And tell my friends that don’t call me that everything is just dandy.

I’ve got a million ideas for the death of you that would always put me in court. And I’m looking for the last one that will let me escape.

Who knows what I’m talking about now Cher martyr. We’ll figure out the translations later. But for now I’m couch ridden. Getting lost in self deprecating thoughts and tireless nights not doing well on guitar and singing flat and carrying no tune.

Si se puede.
No I can’t.

No I cannot

No I will not.

Far be it from me to put down a Hispanic revolutionary but nothing will come of anything. No revolution will bring change. And I’ll still sit here yelling at the tv.

Bonjour mi amour. I’ve gotten lost on this sofa we once called a bed and now I’m adrift. Hold me down now. Because the guitar I can no longer play is telling me to get up. And the poems I can no longer write are telling me to forgive. And the static that is every vacation day spent alone is enough to set myself aflame.

Here I am. I’m all yours. Help me pick a tune. Help me stay awake.

Somewhere tonight as far away as 8 blocks north plus 7 blocks west plus all the trials plus all the burned away heart escapes from those once celebrated parkways plus taking things in stride plus making sure you slept well plus watching over you plus getting you coffee in the morning plus taking my tangled mind to work plus dealing with my own hollowness plus kissing your face with drool still puddling plus saying fuck it to friends plus having four years. I can say now, I can. I can. I don’t know what. But I can.

Lost Years

(Mourn)

For Leanne King

“Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together.”

-Jack Kerouac

1

I mourn those lost years

in the day and the night

in coffee shops and diners 

near manholes close to drug stores

walking by strip clubs and fast food chains.

I mourn for I know 

no other way to remember them

that night time air

with the lights of city blocks and bars

dancing the tango along the building walls

moving at 

2

9

9

7

9

2

4

5

8 meters per second

to touch my feathered hair

that soot black face

after digging through garbage bins

to find pieces of the heart

mistakenly tossed out with

pieces of love

that cracked piece of plaster that never fell from the apartment wall

but given wings, would have spread

and flew as fast as they could

from sights too gaudy

that opaque blue skyline

wiggling its way up

after the orange and red

disappeared with the sun.

the few people that would

stay and listen to

the improper vernacular

and sleazy jokes

that slipped out the door 

of the bar.

I mourn those nights

of catastrophe, working in unison with heaven

to create a livable hell.

For I have no other way

of remembering. 

2

Could you meet me,

down on Ocean Beach Pier

near quarter past nine,

when the summer sun

starts to run dry

Could you see me,

standing adjacent to the palm fronds

my lengthy dark hair turning gracefully in the wind

at nights advance

while the fishermen reel in their lines

disappointed with empty nets

Could you walk with me,

down the rickety wooden planks

wanting lips to touch

yet just beyond times reach

Could you find your way,

past the incandescent bulbs

the street lights and the walking drunks

police sirens and lingering loves

down the rickety wooden planks

Could you brush your hand

against my back

lower it slightly

as we paint words

in the stale summer air

Could you

for one second.

3

San Diego winters blister skin,

Hallelujah!

the spring of the north comes to the south.

October skies, steady grip

on the city sketch paintings

against the North Park housing

brief pictures changing in seconds over

our heads.

Hallelujah! for the spring in winter

children in full dress

costumes of the dead.

Hallelujah! for the blessed touch of good friends

and stolen lips on cheeks

the smell of burning timber and lipstick

mixing in the air.

For the night came and went in what seemed like seconds,

spinning and glowing

in a brief moment of suspended happiness

like the moon’s initial rise to power

over the sun.

Hallelujah! for those eyes

scanning the crowd softly

yet with alcoholic ferocity 

set on course for mine

if only briefly.

Hallelujah! the costumes

all the admitted foolishness

to catch wandering eyes.

For supple skin in the early hours of morning

six a.m. cold legs rubbing each other

proceeding to faces rearranging.

Hallelujah!

one would say.

Hallelujah! for those gorgeous eyes,

set sternly against mine

in the early twilight

of San Diego’s bad in a good way neighborhood.

4

Alone in a bar

Pops

eyes skipping nervously like a schizophrenic

woman, woman, girl, woman

on and off in that metaphorical sense.

Another drink por favor

sequestered away in a meaningless sense.

It’s dark

a dank place with shit pasted all over the walls

wheat paste used to keep it up

disgusting people guzzling things

mother would never let you sip

It’s dark

former cocaine lines

line the bathroom sink and toilet

people going to and fro

eyes glazed over

snuffing and sniffling

a craze everyone adores.

I’m alone in a bar,

Delirium

I’ll have a whiskey please

a gratuitous tip for the man behind the bar

nod and a thanks

It’s dark

nothing new to talk about

It’s always dark

5

We had dinner

early in the evening

five o’clock at Antonio’s

don’t be late.

The water bouncing glares off the shipyard

scattering the light in our eyes

gorgeous as it was

still a bother to naked pupils

I had, the fish,

you the substitute for meat

I had, ideas

not to be outdone by the gentleman to our left, I would pull your seat out, order you a drink, pay the full tab, let you catch that glimmer in my eyes, let you know I meant it.

I had, lack of plans

but we made due

walked along the northern point

watched the sea lions bark and scream

kissed whenever alone

secondary actions,

first thoughts always

The sun finally dipped,

pushed it’s way past Coit Tower

    past the Marina

    past the pacific waves

    past all the lovers who could never love

    as dearly as us

I had, my lonely arms outstretched

to bundle you up

before you could be blown away.

I had you solely.

I had you solely. 

6

Those days are gone

along with the note cards

and letters

They’ve past their prime

moved to the dusk

under a neon sun

And with them we’ll discard

all the memories ever kept

and the soliloquies told in depth

all for the feeling of freedom

independence

single life

whatever we may deem

the term for our end.

7

Soft to the touch

it had an undistinguishable smell

the kind of color that looked dim in the light

and brilliant in the dusk, and night

tasted like a lollipop

and went down like powdered milk

hand and hand with the devil in the darkness

a phone ringing uncontrollably

in the darkness in the darkness

hand and hand with the devil in the darkness

hand and hand with the devil in the darkness

with all the white hot lights

corroded from the early morning rain

wet and rusty like, like saturday morning intercourse

Soft to the touch

with a uniformity like a school boy choir

the kind of color that looked dim in the light

went down like a lollipop

rubbing against my gums

Stuck on one another,

dependent on an other

we stroll quietly

hand and hand with the devil in the darkness 

hand and hand with the devil in the darkness 

hand and hand with the devil in the darkness 

hand and hand with the devil in the darkness

Softly breathing in the white hot lights…

8

taste of stale cigarettes

eyes pacing the floor boards

I count 26,

ears alert

a quiet homicidal night.

Losing a sore heart under neon lights

in August

the heat of the summer

telling me to die

with the jukebox playing

under the neon starlight

all alone.

All I know.

9

About two in the afternoon

I found myself stumbling along

the sullen streets of San Francisco

boisterous along the Embarcadero waterfront

eyes watered from the sea air

innards swaying back and forth with the wind

body struggling past all the tourists on the horizon.

I found my way home.

I found my way home

long after I was due

I found my way home.

I found the old way home.

10

I brought you a teddy bear

on that Christmas Eve

with nothing to say.

The open door

clawing my way inward

to the den of discouraging eyes

a lack of color in once brown eyes

I brought you Christmas gifts

something simple

something blue

nothing trite

yet nothing true.

My eyes wandering

dashing lines

from bed to desk

from dresser to drawer

Christmas lights

guiding my way 

to a lonely lover

after so much had come to be.

And mouths taught

with nothing to say

With no reason to stay.

11

Seven

awake and breathing

Eight

mustered up the courage

for leaving

Nine

found the front door

found my wallet

found my keys and my exit

Ten

walked the streets

watched the people

Eleven

found my way home

my old way home

Twelve

shaking on the back porch

daydreaming of you and me

One

taking my time with fresh tea

daydreaming of you and me

Two

finding time for sorrow

washing dishes under warm water

Three

sleeping it away

for an hour

Four

waking up unrelieved

red eyes

and burning

seeing double

from my dream

Five

a new beer

Six

a phone call

Seven

again no answer

Eight

my head under the faucet

shaking

with epileptic thoughts

racing through my mind

12

I mourn those lost years

near my sink

my toilet

my couch

my bed

I lose myself in them

with a beer in my left hand

cigarette in my right

Those dark brown eyes

set sternly against mine

Those soft red lips

touching softly against mine

Those slick skinny arms

dangling close to mine

Near my desk

in my chair

next to my lampshade

closest to my bed

I mourn those lost years

for I know no other way of remembering

I mourn those lost years

for I know no other way of remembering…

Two pair shoes

side by withered side

caked in dust

a smaller size

i found buried deep

in my closet

and to say

it broke my heart

would be the easiest to say.