There are things about you
that I will not tell anyone.
Habits, truth and deep-tissue thoughts
lingered and buried
behind stacked bricks
and the trick mirrors
of the sugar-high gang.
And like the broken chalk matches
struck against your house
on these wet Sunday mornings,
or the paper plates at the recent wedding
or the kindling made this morning:
you are always quick gone.
Memorandums from emotional vendettas
you wrote on door slats or fingernails
and cautious eyebrow lifting dismissals
of your chosen life
by some effeminate backpacker
or the moussed yuppie
with the signature Douche Haircut
and BMW that comes standard with
The Slanted Ethics for Greed-Monger’s Starter Package.
It’s best to know ahead of time
when you say “I don’t give a shit”,
whether or not you mean it.
Talking to you while you are reading
is like sneezing during the back swing,
indebted and grounded
to the reasons I don’t like having my photo taken
or the reasons you stopped answering your phone.
Rooted in that summer you bought groceries everyday,
and cooked and cleaned, scrubbed the sink
and pulled weeds out from your garden.
You painted the living room a dark green
and vacuumed three times a week.
Cleaned up for regular guests,
bought winter coats,
attended dinner parties
you even made a calendar.
You became a common fixture
like a socket lamp, or a rocking chair
or a knowing face,
smiling and standing
behind the brick-layered perception.
You heard the fine-tuned difference,
between the always knowing,
and the never knew’s.
The in-between’s prone
to quiet pensive thoughts,
growing potato ears
to bind your usual
and to float your Midas heart to rust.
It would be hard to know
whether you were would float face-up
on a rocky pedestal
like crummy dirt-covered leaves
into some wide basin.
Unselected yet somehow attached
you cannot question
the mechanics of another’s heart.
Yours was a heart
for small keys
and big change
(or this is what the chicken-scratch party
has submitted as their ultimate finding).
Bound to the hexes of jazz singers
and wristwatch economics,
and apologies written to you,
pegged with explanations
that you cannot remember:
it disconnects you from her.
And the small threads
along her heart
are nearly stripped,
old skin fully shed,
left behind for another body
roses stacked upon roses.
The only remainders of her
are in blotchy visions,
and still-life moments,
the pangs of intimate moments.
All you are is evidence
begging for comparison
to another world
held up on a turtles stomach
playing perfect notes in a boring ocean.
These are the types of things
that I’ve never said.
These are the odd failures
that define us.
Present like bible verses
printed on condom wrappers.
A feeling always within reach
like quarters glued to the sidewalk
drive-time sunset hearts