Strange, isn’t it?

When asked what I had for lunch,

or what you told me last night

after I asked about your day,

or what day that you told me

to keep open next week, I

struggle

to remember.

Just short-term?

No, the problem runs deeper.

I used to recall without hesitation

the endearing name you called me

long ago when I asked you to spend

your life with me, but now I

fumble

to remember.

But why is it

that I can recount with the speed

of a default setting on a computer

an insult or dirty deed that was

aimed at me long ago or yesterday?

No matter how blatant or how

subtle,

I remember.

Strange, isn’t it?

A friend called my checkered memory

the “old letter to the editor” syndrome:

The squeaky wheel gets the grease.

We do not download the attaboys

or kindnesses, but fixate on the

cudgel

to remember.

Frustrating, isn’t it?

Why can’t I just replace any of the

bad recollections with pleasant ones?

Why is the dark side barking at the

door of my mind, wanting to go out?

Why does my light side have to be so

humble

to remember?

you never loved me

never wanted to me

mom mother mum

you thought little jugs

didn't have big memories

and ears to hear back then

every blow absorbed

not spared less spoiled

dutiful grudging parent

you raised me loathing

memorizing scripture

hail merry full of hate

when you lay dying

I too was dutiful

mopping urine

I fed you

clothed you

gave you drink

vinegar on a sponge

as you cried out

to be taken home

I dressed your corpse

like a garish whore

painted your lips red

no service no obit

hate me for eternity

still not long enough

Bobby carved trenches in the sand with his toe,

Watching the dirt pile into walls on either side.

He heard the crack of a ball ahead,

The buzz of a gnat by his ear,

Felt the blinding sun beating down on his brow.

Dad shouted something,

Wrote something down on a clipboard

As Bobby traced shapes in the dirt.

Dad was once a shortstop too.

"Don't be afraid of the ball," he said.

"Keep it in front of you," he taught Bobby.

Suddenly, a sharp pressure against Bobby's right arm

Exploding into fireworks through his elbow.

Bobby crumpled,

Howling and clasping his arm.

Stern eyes landed on him.

"What did I tell you?"

Bobby choked back a whimper.

"There's no crying in baseball."

Dad frowned, but after the game,

He bought Bobby a red-white-and-blue ice pop

And told him it was their secret.

Dad could fix anything.

The dripping refrigerator,

The rattling car,

The baseball card a school bully ripped.

Dad taped over the tear and made it good as new,

Wiped Bobby's cheek

And reminded him

That crying is for girls,

And was he a girl?

Bobby shook his head so hard he saw stars.

Then dad couldn't come to many games anymore.

He was in bed a lot.

His cheeks had grown hollow.

Another dad on the team held the clipboard these days.

He didn't bring Bobby rocket-shaped ice pops.

He made him play in the outfield.

One day Mom sat Bobby down

And said, holding back a sob,

That Dad had to go away.

Bobby asked when he would come back.

The funeral was a few days later.

Mom dressed Bobby in his little black suit,

The one Dad bought for his First Communion.

She didn't put the tie on right.

Dad always did it for him.

It's a good thing Uncle Stan was there

To remind Bobby to "man up"

And be strong for Mom.

Mom lit a candle for Dad that night.

Bobby watched the flickering flame from birth 'til death,

Stared fighting back tears

Until it had burnt down to a blackened stump.

Bobby lit candles every year,

One for each year his father was gone.

What started with one candle became a chaos of forty flames

Arranged around his little house.

He went by Robert at work now.

Each year, Bobby swallowed the lump in his throat

Until it fell deeper, deeper within him.

Each year, the candles grew bigger and brighter.

He stomped on the ember in his chest until it disappeared,

Even if for just the next 365 days.

One day, Mom's phone rang into silence,

The voicemail left unopened,

The text message left unread.

And just like that,

The light in his life went out.

Bobby bought a new, black suit,

Tied his windsor knot,

And gritted his teeth through the service.

Uncle Stan wasn't around anymore,

But no one had to remind Bobby

To keep his chin up and eyes dry.

He had run out of surfaces in his apartment

For his shrine to grief,

Every table and shelf covered in drips of melted wax.

The matches had burnt calluses onto his fingers,

And a black, smoky haze spread across the ceiling.

The flames popped and crackled

And consumed the wax,

Spilling fire and brimstone all around him.

The firefighters dragged him from the blaze,

Still clutching the old mitt Dad bought him,

As the ceiling came down.

As the night faded to blue dawn,

Bobby walked through the smoking ashes,

Hoping the dams in his eyes would hold.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair,

Smearing charcoal across his face.

He fell to his knees and let the dam break.

I am too much and yet still far too empty. I hate that society has made hugs a greeting: too informal and much too insincere. I need a real hug, one that is open and secure. I want to hide under someone's wings. I want a hug, the kind where the tears can fall quietly onto their shoulder like the first snowflakes daintily slipping to the ground. I want to be held: I'm so cold, and yet not the type a jacket can fix. I long for closeness. I want someone to look into my eyes, but to really look. I want them to see all that I am and all that I am not yet and all that I will never be. I want to be seen more than anything, the real me, even what I push away from the surface. And I want them to see all of me-- my hurt, my fears, my insecurity-- and I want a hug.

held down against rusty springs and dirty sheets.

blood red pavement with bandaged streets.

dragged across the burning floor into the pit.

claw marks etched in your vile lips.

You are the reason I sit in this decaying cell.

the so called legal pallbearers,say I created my own hell.

If only if I spoke in truth,instead of bloody murder screams.

a fragile child in a bottle of poison,gasping for relief.

I held my sanity for so long.

now I'm walking towards deaths grip.Embraced by ghostly stares.

so long,so long,so long.

Gutted in the Boat

it seems Empty

looking for Loot

thru the Glass

hole in the Floor

the Line to the Infinite

with Cradle n' hook

is Gone limp

And by Faith, eh,

We're all Fishmen

1

Connections snap

and rebind.

We

find each other's eyes

in brief sips,

reminisce on tiny moments from our

late adolescence.

Café hums…

college kids typing on laptops,

waiters in white jackets clacking

porcelain plates,

mother's carry their babies

and one reaches for a

strand of my hair,

you laugh,

your eyes

distracted and I see

you

twice

alive.

Day old relationship demolished

by the end of our amorous conversations,

we stood up and you told me

you were leaving for the summer.

This won't work,

sorry.

2

Monday morning flesh sheds and

resets beneath freshly shredded soles

that i continue to pick and peel,

(comfort in never healing).

Nerves endings pricked, blood trickles up

bare layers of unhardened skin.

Calloused palms peeling never mending,

viral exanthem raising

legions of charcoal blotches

plotting paths of red bumps,

lumps of excessive cellular plight

claiming susceptible topography,

blooming tan shades of flaky,

dry ash.

Naps course visions of you,

bleached linen sheath echoing each

second I felt love for once,

creases breeze sixty degree gusts,

petrified over how i’ll get through work tomorrow…

Tuesday afternoon burning cruel dreams,

steps sting walking miles past

Alexandria streets rife with searing traffic;

crosswalk lights never changing.

I watch blue metro buses pass sluggishly,

Ford explorers turn awkwardly,

sedans rush fastest.

Black dogs awake from withered rest,

they imagine taking one step toward the surging intersect;

wish metal to tarnish my sparring flesh,

thinking my bones could finally settle

for a second:

but i wait.

3

Pantheon of primeval stone stares victorious,

I birthed pillars to remember you,

and lurked the corners of death–

i left myself wicked for far too long…

Layers rebirthed,

faithful pigment disintegrating

in cloudy rose epsom salt;

undulating bath water swallowing

marionette corpse.

We choose paths that seduce quickest;

learn the hard way because some days

sickness feels like purpose;

routines shut our eyes to the

control we have over life; we

forget about our skin and

leave it to bear our ineptitude.

For three months I chose to

remain restless;

ligaments dense, lungs glued,

explosive exhalations sever alveoli;

charred forearms clinging to

remanents of my past self,

afraid that if I asked for help

my protection might abandon me:

That perfection was the only choice.

When we met I saw you sitting

on a bench conversing with a homeless man.

His belongings in clear trash bags,

speech fading, calm but slowly losing his final

impressions of humanity.

You spoke to him with great care

not afraid,

but kind …more human

than human…

At that intersect by F— B—

we waited for lights to change,

you went left, I went forward.

thinking of telling you how I feel

at the first step across that intersection.

I didn't look back at you,

though I wish i did,

to see the woman who tore me

away from a D. istant C. ity

made hell,

brought me a sentiment i

thought I'd lost:

love.

i’m glad i met you Chr—

I don’t want to set the world on fire…

I just want to set a flame in your heart.

it hurt being beaten, but i roared to life, calling you a coward a fool and a cunt!

my blood burned as it ran down my face. the paid coppers questioning fault, but pointing at the boy.

"i'll show them, in spades," i spit with hate.

i made my run soon after, my drama pulled at me to make a scene that would crash upon the tabloids, but doom pulled me in close to the fire. the coppers seeing only me that fault released me to your care.

"focus on the steps," boils doom

the beating was wild, yet merely focusing me. my blood flowing but my hate grew in its wake. as time creeped and the protectors failed. i woke in my cell toiling at witching hours, preparing.

doom whispering sweet nothings in my ear, "focus boy"

as hate grew, lines intersected and it was executed with the focus of night terrors.

face of death formed in black, painted with a horrific toothy smile focusing me. the sound moaned and cried chopping with glee as i swung the bat upon legs and hips like celery.

"in spades" i spit, laughing with doom.

as i walked away free, sheading armor and weapons upon the drowned lady, cold rain washed me of the hate and doom. as the coward coppers began to beat me they saw meat raw and red cloaked in naked black.

"focus boys no pity for me now" i boil

What did I do wrong?

What did I do wrong?

I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it.

I just need to know.

Ignore the punch,

the pin,

the pain.

Think.

It’ll be better,

when you know.

Can’t feel it.

Don’t have to.

You’re okay out here;

Don’t look below.

Pain’s easy,

File it away,

with the rest.

Like their death.

It was sad.

Store the funeral too.

Just a day. Just one day.

Like the crash.

That was bad,

But, the pain,

was okay.

The pain was okay.

Now everyone’s watching.

They’re talking; expecting.

You have to escape.

Emotions erupting.

The punch.

The pin.

The pain.

Shove them down.

Press them down.

Keep on smiling.

Keep smiling.

You’re not going to make it.

There’s no room. No room.

You should run.

You should hide.

This is awful; you’ll die.

They’re all watching and waiting for you to trip over,

The pain is erupting, the tears are in motion, from your gut to your throat,

try to gulp, but you choke. Still. Silent, but choking.

Provoking their movement and now they’re on fire.

They burn in your skull, behind eyes. Here they come.

Gotta run. Just keep running. To the quiet of alone. To the kitchen.

Alone now, they run. Run the tap, boil the kettle, hide the noise of your breath.

Of your breathing. The heaving of heavy hearts laborious beating. It won’t stop. It won’t stop. It won’t stop. It won’t stop. It won't stop. It won’t stop. You look to the kettle to the boiling and steaming. It won’t stop. It won’t stop. You’re reeling. You’re dying. It won’t stop. It wo—

Pour it over your hand.

It is burning—soothing.

Keep on pouring,

for as long as you dare.

The emotions are leaving.

Retreating. Defeated.

You've regained control.

Your breathing slows.

Nothing is wrong, now.

You’ve fixed it. Fix yourself.

Feel the jolt of the cold tap.

You’re back in control.