All Your Friends Are Moving In And They Are Calling You An Asshole
This is for you and you only.
While you have no real wish for longevity, never pay a high price
for amorous junk.
Vehement infants throw themselves out of their white curtained window
mom cries because her daughter spent too much time with a kid known
for his vowed subordination of criminal anarchists. Some things matter more
than others. Among the many ways to waste a day, you weren’t one of them.
Anyone who tries to understand, cannot. Bell Hooks said that there is
to be found in violence. My world was way
when I met your friend
in the safari hat. Your stolen rowboat had holes in it and I was drowning under
the night before.
I am lit up like Christmas lights
thinking about how you held yourself up by my hurt.
Only now, under alphabetical duress, can I ask myself why.
You felt like the smell of my parent’s house,
despite the empty conversation and silence
reminiscent of safety comfort love.
This morning, I wanted to take a pickaxe
to the idea of self-demonized rich babies who cry over streaked eyeliner
and their father’s array of platinum records. I accidentally rhymed when I spoke of you
It said much of your duplicity. I packaged my hurt over the phone
and wrapped it up like an unsatisfactory resume.
You used spiders to get back at me and I was enervated by
your holy white skate shoes. I will not be made a pariah
by someone who has made a home of my thoughts. Other people’s
dads are my least favorite things now. Today, Venice blvd is no longer
the size of you and I have no choice but to give you a pardon
as I desire to see you walk in front of a train
metaphorically speaking of course.
This is the last page of this notebook and
every sentence points to you—since I did buy it in Berkeley
with your friend at that shop where we found
during that really bad three weeks.
Today, I cannot hear anyone else’s
“I love you”s without
glancing over my shoulder.