Monday The 13th

Remember when you were the only one to approach me on my first day of 2nd grade?

Remember when we went to see Raiders of the Lost Ark in the theater like, 7 or 8 times?

Remember when your parents got you all the best GI Joe stuff for Christmas?

Remember when Like A Virgin and Stray Cat Strut possessed you?

Remember when you were the closest thing to a sibling I ever knew?

Remember when we stole handfuls of Jolly Ranchers and Bazooka gum from the 7-Eleven and then played Gauntlet in the corner until all of our lunch money was finally dumped into that machine? Karate Champ and Tron also sat inside that store and they both gobbled up nearly all of our filthy lucre.

Remember when we actually had girlfriends in the 6th grade?

Remember when you had your dad’s little mustang then that badass black Honda Prelude then the Mitsubishi Eclipse, and then the Acura? Though my favorite was the 5.0, hands down.

Remember how you would drive like a damn maniac up and down Beaverton Hillsdale Highway?

Remember when we were the best of friends, bound by genealogy and our desire for pure escapism?

Remember when you were tailgating so bad that 2 different drivers turned around to flip you off in the same day? To your incredible disbelief, I might add. I wasn’t surprised in the least. 

Remember when we used to watch X-Files every Sunday night?

Remember our laughter and frustration? How it would either bind us or break us? Burn us or make us?

Remember how you showed me how to inhale Camels behind the convenience store?

Remember how your basement was a den of debauchery and how your older brother would supply us but also torture us with his assholishness?

Remember getting older than teenagers and realizing the world wasn’t just some playground where we could just play through until recess was over?

Remember that one day when someone found your shoe stuck in the brush along the railing of the Vista Avenue Viaduct?

Remember that one day I got a call from my favorite little sister crying into the phone that you were dead?

Remember your wonderful family and life that was apparently staggeringly dark and lonely?

Remember that day when we all became staggeringly dark and lonely because you leapt into the nighttime skyline on your way home from work?

Remember the party I threw at my house for you because your parents didn’t recognize suicide as a reason to celebrate your beauty, laughter and significance?

Remember how confused, guilty and wrecked everyone was while trying to party and lie to ourselves that it was all going to be ok?

I remember it like it was today.

Because it was today.

But today we’ve all soldiered on in both your honor and our regret. We’ve all gotten on with our business while you still linger in our heads, still floating above Jefferson Street and permeating our dreams the day before Valentine’s Day.

Autodieography

– visiting dead uncles still attached by technology, distancing yet listening, detached from my mom’s oncology –

This unruly universe has a razor on which its decisions are made. Sometimes it chooses a sudden, delicate yet brash conception that wails into this world hungry, wet and magnificent, other times it’s a quick and brutal plucking of our family from our unwitting grips, leaving us humble, dizzy and vengeful.

We succeed. We own. We lose. We teach. We work. We enjoy. We die. 

There is no reasoning with a razor, only the awareness that such an edge exists. Like a horse not quite broken or a lover not yet trusted, its natural action is one that somehow always makes sense regardless of its seeming indifference. 

Manhandling Panhandlers

I am unsure of a world where if we extend compassion toward another who needs it we are reprimanded by a section in the corporate code of conduct.

I am completely untrusting of a society that discards it’s elderly, favoring a collected isolation where all our grandpas and grandmas can die around the television  playing canasta.

I am obviously not of this earth if when we see people who are unwell, vulnerable or in need we approach with severe apprehension if we even acknowledge them at all.

I am weary of seeing so much neglect for people who are just like us, with eyes, hearts, histories and ambitions. Just like us except that we have jobs, families, educations and the wherewithal to not allow poor decisions or questionable people dictate pivotal moments that affect our futures.

“Just like us“.

Just like “them“.

Those who have nowhere to go are more like us than we’ll ever know. Those who suffer beneath the discarded ends of our luxuries know this world in ways we petulant, privileged and mercenary swarms will rarely understand.

Happiness Happens In Moments

it tastes like nighttime, like a cocktail whose dark wetness clarifies what you utter to whomever is listening. like the wind or a lover whose whisper washes away all you have fought for to get to this place. it is the sunrise over buildings and the easy morning cigarette, the road trip to strange towns and an ice cream cone on a park bench. these pieces of pleasure compose my universe and as long as there are fields to run in, rooms to kiss in, and streets to rage in, these vices will always be the fuel for fun. whether a warm tea between palms or a bottle dressed with a flaming rag, we all share an explosive connection to everything we desire.

Prey For Snow

Snow has dropped a foot up from the ground and hasn’t moved for days. It’s a frozen, remarkable, quiet softening of routine schedules. We now pass each other slower, sharp and aware, briskly riveted with the barely tenable belief that we as humans control nearly nothing on this habitable rock. This sleepy burg isn’t on the East coast or Midwest. It’s people gathered in a little cliquey city who are now suddenly and glaringly bound to each other as this rare winter crushes through the streets indiscriminately, with stunning, humbling violence.

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2wenty 7eventeen

Bring in the new year with its brutal, sheer fear,
wring out the old year, beat what’s brought us here.
Bury our weary as we parade our cheer,
“Move along, folks, nothin’ to see here.”

Twenty Seventeen doesn’t mean our hands are clean,
in between the lanes and lines, swerving, we careen
into a class divide as colors collide, tweeted and streamed.
Televised destiny, technology unexpectedly
deciding what things mean. Meme.

Ring in the new year! All is wonderful far and near!
We have most of our limbs and beauty we find dear.
Whether we’re alone in a town or among those in your home,
new years appear to be clear only when we shut our mouths to hear.

Poems.