Lemur

Because hating

one’s self

for not writing

is beyond a fruitless

act

I will write.

Currently—

listening

to the Flower Duet

from Lamke

and sipping a

mediocre pinot noir

isn’t doing the trick.

I even just sat through

one of the most moving

movies I’ve seen in ages

perfectly packaged—

with heartfelt friendships,

a quadriplegic,

and subtitles

because it

was French.

I could use a

cigar.

Fuck,

even a cigarette.

Be good.

Be good.

Be good.

What is good?

Society’s version

of good is

so beyond

fucking monotonous.

I think

I lost my soul

somewhere on

the train to

boring

trying to

align myself

with the other

lemurs.

Don’t light

the cigar.

Don’t.

Just jump.

Better

She almost
ran to
him, pathetically,
whole-heartedly, earnestly,
to tell
him she
loved him,
mustering the
words,  I’m
going to
miss you,
its been
hard trying
to get
over you—
and there
was no
emotion behind
his shell.
He seemed
almost amused
by this
vulnerable outburst--
all the
while cocking
his head
to the
side in
saddened bemusement.
She missed
the tiny
crack within
the fortress
he always
had around
him and
she  missed
it— Missed
that one
singular moment
where he
could have
been hers
and now
she’ll never
get it
back—though
deserving of
unconditional love
he has
risen above
it and
pushed her
away, so
now she
must figure
out how
to daydream
about a
life  infinitely
better than
it would
be if
he were
in it.

People I Haven't Seen

People I haven’t seen

in a while

ask me

what I’ve been up to,

innocently enough.

My reply of

Working, mostly—

attached with a smile

which doesn’t reach my eyes,

actually makes me

take a shallower breath

as I speak the words.

I ask those

same people

what has been going on

in their own lives

to take the attention

off myself.

I’ve lost myself

lately

in a sort of

numbing autopilot

sort of way,

thinking of work

and making money—

for things I do not need,

things to fill my thoughts

so I don’t focus on

squandered potential

and the second love

of my life which has disintegrated.

And when I’m

alone, drowning out

any actual life contemplation

with baking, chopping,

red wine and the blues

I don’t know who the girl

is in the kitchen

in the poppy-patterened

coral-colored apron.

But I know

that shiny

mirror-like knife

she’s wielding,

which she bought

for such a great deal,

is just another form of

a looking glass she

can’t bear to come

to terms with.

My Favorite Two Days in December

 1.

I had on a robe;

it was early.

You were obviously

hung over

and I went downstairs

as quietly

as I could

to clean the mess

of uneaten buffalo wings

and French bread with spinach dip

that you, myself, and the

rest of our friends had made

the night before—

and I put on some coffee.

When it was done

I came back upstairs

to gently nudge you,

Wake up.

I bent down

to kiss you lightly and

tell you coffee was made;

you asked,

“Did you make the coffee?”

I nodded and nuzzled

“Mmmhmm,”

“Then no I don’t want any.”

I smiled.

I knew you would say that.

I love that about you—

loved that about you.

I always burn the coffee.

2.

We stayed in bed

for hours,

barely touching,

I’m not positive after

a year-and-a-half

but I don’t think you

are a touchy

sort of person.

I am.

But I am not one

to push it—

like a Labrador

I searched for some

sort of acceptance

in your eyes

some sort of nod—

fucking blink

of a green light.

I only  

ever let my knee

near your knee.

Did you notice?

Maybe—considering

you could always tell

if I wore lotion, or perfume

or the combination of

the two on any given day.

There was this moment

after we had showered

separately

when I was curling my hair

and doing my makeup,

bundled in a towel

and you barged in

with a single knock

asking to

use my hair dryer—

I still laugh when I think

of that.

You caught me,

at my most natural,

before I could become

a finished

product

and I didn’t mind.

I always

usually mind.

3.

You got so

fucked up

the night before.

All I wanted

to do

was make you

feel better.

So I touched

my lips

to yours

and quickly

made my

way to the

nearest store—

bought you Gatorade

and ibuprofen

with the money

that was left in

your wallet downstairs.

I will always

want

to make you

feel better.

That night

you mentioned in bed

(and I don’t know

how it was brought

up because we had

begun drinking again

hours previously)

that your wife had

got you Gatorade

and aspirin

for your hangover.

Gratitude,

or an annoyance

for the intimacy

I forced upon you

by playing

nurse--

I don’t know.

4.

We were

chatting with friends

about their long-standing

engagement

and you offered your vineyard

to them if they so desired.

I’m so sorry,

but I pictured us

briefly

in the fall

when the leaves

were just rusting

after harvest

and me in the dress

I saw in a magazine

three years ago

that I still think

I’d wear

if I had the

opportunity.

5. 

We sat

at one of

our favorite

bars together

my knee on yours

and while you were

busy schmoozing

two men,

you whispered

in my ear

you wanted

to go home

with just me

to be with

just me.

I don’t

remember

ever

hearing you say

that before.

I don’t remember

ever liking a man

wanting me

to leave

the so-called

“party” early.

I didn’t mind.

In fact I

can still

recall the feeling—

the quickening

pace of my heart

beating

Yes lets go home.

I want only

your attention

on me.

6.

Why don’t

you—

didn’t you—

ever

kiss me

in the

daylight?

7.

I find it most

endearing

when you

order something

and I take a sip

or a taste—

and don’t even

ask.

If I’m lucky

underneath the table

my knee almost

touches yours

 and I can feel

your heat

so near to my

thigh

while we pretend

there is nothing

brewing

to the outsiders.

8.

When I

dropped you off

I asked if you

liked the band

on the radio

because I loved

them.

“No, not at all,” you said.

I looked

straight ahead and smiled

because from

the corner of my eye

I saw you smile.