Dirty Glasses

I used to think that despite my smallness I took up good space. I said that I'd
write a nice poem (I didn't say the word 'nice' but I meant it, sort of)
about you. Just so you don't get your hopes up I'll give you prior warning:
proper capitalization is a must. In case that takes away from this kind of
poem. In case it's not as artsy.

Mountain crumbled, somehow, your name, I think about
calling you Eurodweeb or about lying face-up on a picnic table on
a park bench on the only Independence Day that matters. Re: HAHA. But I
don't. I never got that chance. The only anomaly on the hill over there looks
like it rather belongs there. Fireworks force me to believe a little bit
more in beauty. The heat'll get to me and the sweat will sluice down my forehead,
soak the wood.

Q: Am I here?
A: Enough for me.

Q: Are we all here?
A: No, a few people are running late. They'll be here in a moment.

Q: Are we really here, like here?
A: Minta di tonjok ya, Moz.

I'm very adamant about cheesy poems. "You're very honest," I imagined him
saying. "Indescribably so." Amidst our broiling laughter there is something akin to
a densely immovable glacier, pockmarked with indignance. Now that I'm on
this side of the world am I allowed to believe I have turned into a sweeter person?
(A pink cashmere sweater hangs loosely from her shoulders, she's turned to the camera
with an immeasurable silence and lips glossy pink like from spreads in expensive magazines).
Oh, Johnny. The world is so cheeky, isn't it? And I don't like to be honest / you're
an idiot.

We put out little feelers. It hasn't been a day. Later the streets will fill with
puddles and the distant echo of thunder and I think about that, enough. I thought of
the image today. There is a boy at the top of the cobblestone street under a lamp
post that flickers erratically. And there is a little radio in his hand it is streaming
jazz music and the music is shattering onto the street, into little glass beads. Somewhere
(not here) there is a god that needs us. He is wearing some snazzy rain boots and
clutching an umbrella.

And the boy is smoking in his rocking chair and his eyes are closed, he is
pretending something. It'll take three decades to fix the stains on the stones.
As I get a little older there's been time to add people to this list in my head:
PEOPLE I AM TRYING VERY HARD TO AVOID. See now these sorts of people when
I see them I'll cross the street and pull the book up over my head and wrap the
blanket around me in one swift and brilliant moment, enough to take a gallon of
breath away. "It is alright," my teacher said, "if you only save one person." He paused.
"It is alright if that one person is yourself."

I have secret rendezvous in my dreams. He and I are always overlooking the
same bay. The ships are also the same. Re: Re: HAHAH. Through the early morning
fog we discuss the trip: he puts a trembling hand on the railing and says he
isn't going. I should have expected. Welcome to THE SUBLIME TIME: in this
version I already own the library, and the picnic table, and I have already
died once or twice.

I thought about my mom today. I wonder if I'll be that perfect at 39. Are
you going to be okay? You okay? You fine? Don't forget to be honest.
I was surprised at those words. I you miss America ex imperfect
alright we'll stumbling be okay sleep. "I gave up on pretending that I could be
anything better than bad." Those ones. As a consolation if it is one, there are
some exceptionally vibrant butterflies over there.

Think about what to pack / who to warn / when to leave / where to go
Think about THE PHOTOGRAPHER EYES, hastily turning the blanket on the
rocking chair in the street into a proper myth. Solitude. The type of old guy
who goes to see soft and color-muted films alone. You bite the apple. You shake your fist and
grumble about Camus, about all the wrong upperclassmen. It's the snack before
the massacre, before the casual attack, like, how many hours did we spend
on the phone? Pushing your voice into the moonlight until it was whisked away. I
decided to draw this map. New nation, lodged deeply into my throat. 2 in the morning,
the rain has not stopped and
neither has
your radio