(1)

I watch the parking lots. At one point I framed them with some nostalgic value but these days they are simply the security of florescent concrete draped in moonlight, twisted illusions of solitude.

I have never seen nature fall upon something so plain.

Pink clouds line trees and housetops but

many nights it is impossible to see beyond the concrete

I am desperate for something factual.

(2)

I’m sorry I didn’t know. I’m sorry

I tried to fix it with copious amounts of

white cheese pizza as though I could convince you of

undeniable truths long since faded. I’m sorry your hips cracked open that day. I cursed your crutches and prayed flowers would grow like in the fractures of concrete and you

would be healed.

These days I’ve learned that when anorexia plays,

she plays for keeps. Your bones were collateral damage while

my heart beats too fast and too slow. Do you remember

baking cookies on Thursday nights? We ate every one and

I wish at the time someone had whispered,

“This is freedom.”

(3)

I hope Paris is beautiful.

I hope you still run mazes across cement rooftops and make love under shadows because

God knows you deserve that. They say time is the mind’s

creation and I often wonder if we layered our

memories on top of one another they would all

make sense. We would lie on top of parking structures

and feel the cold concrete under our

fingertips so as to know

We are here. This is today and the next day and

this is the moon that shines upon the city

just for us.

2013

My teeth sink into my inner lip

as the plastic sockets in my knees squeeze tight

into a long treatise on rigidity. I weigh my options delicately and my stomach sings its sickeningly sweet refrain.

You do not deserve,

you do not deserve,

you do not deserve.

One bite and you are nothing.

(It is not nothingness I fear, but futility.

I do not know this yet.)

Marinara bleeds down the side of my flaccid pasta

as the other girls fold into themselves in front of hospital trays.

The air is laden with reality’s sudden burden.

Kathy picks up a cheddar-orange Sun Chip, hand-shaking, eyes watering.

I cut my strawberries into threes:

one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.

Numbers circumscribe cognition.

I pronounce my contention with the space I no longer occupy.

(It is not help I receive, but illness.

I do not know this yet.)

2013

I find myself going back to the part where you took the best of me to burn out back and I brought you more wood and stared through the smoke searching for relief in the whites of your eyes, so focused on the flames I realized I was the one at the bottom of the river my lungs filling with you and the look on your face the first time we fucked.

And so when I handed you the match that day you threw it in with eyes cold and clear and I let the smoke fill my pupils before I coughed up the river silt into your hands

my stomach empty just in time

to watch you leave

2015

I could see the wreckage. I could see it in the way your eyes smiled the clearest, bluest, devastation I have ever seen.  

I could see it in the subtle confidence you performed as you tipped your head back and grinned. Cool Guy, you had it down. I know, because I did too. Cool girl. We’d been practicing since childhood– you switched words to halt your stutter and I learned the art of being quick to laugh, shoulders back, ask another question.  We learned early that being attractive affords you a certain anonymity.

Pretty people don’t get sick.

And for a moment, we were magnetic. When we walked into a bar, people stared. We played our roles well. You would twirl me through the crowd and I would ignore my every impulse hide away. Wide grin. Spin spin spin. We sat with arms around each other as people stumbled up to tell us of our luck. “So beautiful,” they said, and we threw our heads back in calm, adorable, laughter.

We were beautiful, it was true.

But I could see the wreckage.

And I know that you could too.

2015, age 22

Who would’ve thought

The storm that broke me

has paved the way to my growth

Finally,

I’ve found my own rhythm and flow

Through the chaos and pain,

A strength was reborn,

In the depths of despair,

A new light was born.

The tempest that once shattered,

now breathes my name,

In its fierce, untamed clatter,

I found a new flame

I have a confession.

When I smell the scent of Brandy—I cave. The tinge of her skin, I almost feel the dance of her muscles in my embrace, she heats me past fervent desire, I—I can’t hold it anymore.

holding it close, the familiar curve in my palm and I choose which I wish to suckle, she guides with me with the gentle tug, the liquid pouring forth—fireworks! The world turns into dizzying humidity, I—can breathe again! I can fly again! I can run again! She takes me, to numerous heights! I dip my head back to take her fully in, oh, the moan of ecstasy—thank you GOD! You’ve given me Brandy! You’ve given me… you’ve given me life.

—the room returns to grey.

I remember where I am. I look to the glassy frame in front of me. Feeling it in my palm, embracing it.

thank god… I know brandy.

Click. The door closes. The gritty scent of dried sweat lingered on his shirt, rough and raw, like a memory of the physical activity he had taken part in just minutes ago. Not that it had exhausted him, no. He's not one to get exhausted quickly. The broad shoulders and thick arms, full of muscle, are wrapped into the fresh blast of deodorant that‘s supposed to conceal the stench of his body odour. Lasting 48 hours - what a joke. He knows it's just a scam; what else. But he chooses to believe it anyway; for what reason, he doesn't know himself. But he doesn’t need to know; he’s got better things to do. Hitting the gym daily, of course. He loves the stench of sweating bodies in a closed room, just in a way that makes it hard to form a rational thought. Just like the cloud of deodorant around him.

He coughs. Then he looks up.

The cheap LED light of the locker room is doing its best to present the hard work he put into his own body in an overly positive way. Just how he likes it. He’s not ugly - the burly, young man with his signature, cocky smirk staring back at him in the dirty mirror. Dirty. Mould isn’t exactly dirt, more like a living organism. Not that he would care, he doesn’t have time to think about such trivial things anyway. He’s got better things to do.

The purple shirt in his hands is grinning back at him, almost screaming to be worn by him. Begging to be worn by him. To be stretched around his muscles and to fit him like a second skin. The brightly coloured piece of fabric looks almost pathetic in his big hands, yet he doesn't think about it. Clothes don’t have a mind to think nor a voice to speak. Certainly not to beg either. The cloth seems to glow in the cold LED light as its purpose is fulfilled, the material giving his body another layer of warmth.

Click. The door closes again. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know that he has entered the locker room. Who is he? - you may ask. What a weak question, not that neither he nor his reflection would've thought about that as he did turn to face his best friend. His best friend - that's who he was. Nothing more, just his best friend. Yes. He’d always been close with him, as kids and now as teens. Young adults, more likely. Not that it would matter. He stared at him, maybe a bit longer than he should. But how could he not?

He hates to admit it to himself, but he loves thinking about it. How it would feel to have the other’s arms wrapped around him. To have that sweet, sweet voice talk to him and have him float on cloud nine.

He shakes his head.

No, he can’t think about his best friend like that. It’s not right, not appropriate. But then again, when does he care about being appropriate? He never did, so why now? He doesn’t know; maybe he doesn’t want to know. It’s better if he doesn't know; it makes things easier. Less problems to worry about, less issues to deal with.

But then again, he thinks. For once, he thinks.

He’s always liked the soft demeanour of the other, of his best friend. He’s been observing him for a while now, silently, of course. He found himself to like a lot about the boy. He likes his soft hair. The scar that's decorating his temple. His physical appearance. His cologne. His handsome face. So handsome. His laugh, his jokes, his smile. His eyes, God, how he likes the grey storm raging on the green grass inside those eyes. His-, no. This can’t continue like this. Not at all.

His eyes dart to his reflection – why are his cheeks so pink? They’ve never been this colourful before, let alone pink. Something’s wrong, greatly wrong. But at the same time, it’s right. So right. At least it feels right to him. Just as right as he approaches him. They locked eyes; he could've sworn he saw himself on one of those grey clouds in the eyes of the other boy. He likes grey, he suddenly finds himself admitting to himself in his head. He always did, just never acknowledged it. Especially this shade of grey. It’s like fog on a lake, moonshine coating the water where the veil is casting its surroundings in a magical haze.

He didn’t even realise how long he was staring until his best friend turned his back on him. That strong, muscular back. He felt himself subconsciously moving closer to the other boy; he marvels at how the other one fits into his larger embrace. He can feel the body in his arms tensing up; of course - who would expect to be hugged from behind like that? But he doesn't care, not now. Now, his only thought is wasted on his feelings. For once. He never did that, but now? Now is different. He almost shudders from relief as his friend relaxes in his embrace. How nice. He’s never felt better, not at showing off his muscles, not at basketball either.

Never. But he likes it. He could do better things than standing here, but not now. No. Never again. Ever.

Time slips away like water through my cupped hands as I scramble to clean up and change,

—Only to realize that the moment I was chasing has already dissolved.

It lingers in fragments, half-forgotten words, the scent of rain on pavement, or the warmth of sunlight,

—That’s now just a memory on my skin.

It flows in strange currents, sometimes dragging slowly, like a lazy river, and other times rushing by in a flood, sweeping me off my feet,

—Before I can catch my breath.

I try to hold on to it, taking pictures, writing in journals, filling up calendars,

—Doing whatever I can to preserve the moments before they vanish.

Birthdays, sunsets, old conversations,

—They blur together into snapshots in my mind.

But even as time slips away, each moment is still a chance

—Brief, fleeting, mine to hold, if only for a little while.

Ericc Tascott...

A man of grand sight

And sweeping scope!...

His visions proceed him...

Watch as his hand cuts

A stunning mountain

With holes cut through it

Like swiss cheese,

And with swift stretch of arm

An entire field of peculiar flora and

Fauna thrive on paint alone...

A prickly petal bursting,

An exotic stamen bubbling and

Infiltrating the desert eye

So sly but faster then a blink stampede

O, yes indeedy!...

This man was my mantra...

Like a sutra thread whistling

Back to the source

He fed my mind and body

And eyes with dots,

Always electrifying

And supplying me with his

Newest psychic infusion...

This man who loved his cat,

And fed all the neighborhood strays...

This man who taught his cat to

Perch upon his back,

And stretch his

Kitty spine by pulling at

His own tail that was held

Securely in Ericc's loving hands...

He held the keys

To the grand alternative

From the hustle and bustle

Dog eat dog...

He wasn't squatting over his visions

Like a rain sapped branch

Promising himself that one day he would

Get off the pot, and take a chance

On that faraway dream,

He was living it 24/7!...

His art vibrant and distinctive as his

Fashion sense...

He often wore his abstract art,

Draping it's aboriginal designs over himself,

But never talked about it unless prompted...

Staring back at you as you'd enter

His museum like abode

With all knowing eyes

That this was the right way,

And he had found it...

His pie in sky all laid out on his walls

For all to see...

It was never just the art though...

The man was a profound listener...

He wanted to know always what was

Going on with me,

Rarely talked about himself except in jest,

Always thought the smallest aspects

Of life were hilarious, and seemed

Fascinated in all the intricacies

Of human nature...

We talked Family Guy...

Celebrity gossip...

Philosophy,

Music and the Grand Rapids

Underground scene all in one

Breath, and I always

Felt welcome and

In the warm embrace of a friend

Who truly cared...

My eye would always wander while

We jawed and guffawed,

Catching a painting or odd detail I'd

Never noticed and he'd tell me

With that clear as bell memory

Where he was and what he had

Been doing on the day he breathed

Each vibrant and breathing work into life...

Music went hand in hand with his art...

He taught me a handful of musical

Experiments that were as unique as

I'd ever heard from the rarest of

Underground musicians,

And always had a tape player hammering

Out a tune

While he splattered his soul

Onto the canvas at a rhythmic, but

Thoughtfully steady pace...

It would take him days upon days

To apply his dot technique

And create this mystifying effect...

Such an enamoring gift...

Reduced to an ash of himself

I visited him with my then pregnant wife

After he had been diagnosed with

Parkinsons...

He had refrained from painting

At this time...

The shaking taking the place

Of the spasmodic creativity that

Once ruled his life...

His eyes now plagued with fear

When once they were brimming beatific

And rich with life's answers...

Generous to a fault he sold me his

Painted jacket that was a life achievement

And transcended any

Clothing art I had ever seen;

He had confided in me once that he had

High hopes that Mick Jagger

From The Rolling Stones would buy it

From him if he could talk to the right people,

And I never doubted that if Mick had seen

It that he would...

This was to be our last meeting with Eric

For the next five years...

He was forced to move with family because

Of his debilitating disease,

And then I was to discover very recently

That he had developed terminal cancer,

And was very close to death

At St. Mary's in the Hospice area,

And choking back the tears

I fled to see him with my wife and child...

My boisterous boy Rémy kicking and screaming

While my loving wife respectively

Tried to calm him outside Ericc's room

As I pushed back the door to reveal

What I assumed

Would be a withered shell of what I once knew...

But no!...

Here he was so beautiful and almost floating

Towards the ceiling...

His chest lifting like he was drifting on a cloud

So proud!...

His face with mouth wide open

Taking in every breath and energy

That he was allowed in his short time...

His eyes closed but not sealed...

His daughter once seated, saw I was in need,

And swiftly rose from bedside

Saying I could have my time...

A sublime gift...

She left and gave us space...

I took out the drum I had brought

That Ericc had gifted along with

My purchase of the jacket...

I remembered him beating it between

Paintings, and it had his love

Radiating from it...

I started thumping away at it as I

Told him about all the good times

Trying never to show pain...

Ericc's edges of his face lifted in a smile

And his hand gripped mine,

As I continued to share our adventures

That meant so very much...

That was all I could ever ask for...

This and I hope he goes very swiftly in the night

Knowing that I am forever grateful

And transformed...

I hope he's as without burden as his

Thin angelic flesh seemed to be...

I'll always thank him, and be in hope

That I can see him in the next life

When it's time to check my bags...

3/13/24

Bunny Villaire

We try so hard to do what we were born to do, but all you see are tools in a toolbox to be used as you please and tossed aside when we become too broken to use anymore. You find our kind a nuisance but it's what you hate so much about us that makes us so valuable to you. The darkness and the spark within mingle together in an impossible storm of perspective that you crave for yourself and find forever out of your reach. What do you get the man who has everything? What does he want more than any wealth at his fingertips? The talent of others that he abuses. What could heal becomes a weapon turned upon all, for the sake of endless greed. You keep us broken because you know, we're dangerous. We are more than you will ever be. Keep what you hold dear close while you can. We are awakening, and your days are numbered.