The Ghosts of The Retail World

My family's miserable love
is like finding a pile of money
engulfed in flames. We're happy

to have it. But what to do with it?
Sis told my mother 'I think
he'll off himself soon.'

But that worries me less
than the dream I had two night
ago. This girl, I knew, she

pressed up against me. Hips
and legs exposed. A glowing.
She gave me pause, which I took

to the waking life. And I wanted
her voice on the phone. Her breath
on my neck, like it was before.

The funny thing about a first
impression is you can only make
one. And she murdered me at second

sight. Born before the wrong war,
she resembles a dark Jayne Mansfield
with better taste in films. We never

passed the opening credits,
but it was the best movie
I have never ever seen.

Observations at O'Rourkes, September 2011

The couple to my right, leaning against the side of the building, is older. Mid-fifties. Before they lit their cigarettes, the man grabbed the woman's hand and locked his arm, steadying her before she lost her footing where the bricks meet the pavement. And there they lean, smoking and measuring their hands against one another's. Their children are probably grown, and have just gone back to college after the long summer break. Their mood is one of calm. Relaxation.

There is a girl in her late twenties sitting at the table in front of me, accompanied by a man of the same age bracket who looks like a strange cross between Seth Green and a young Bill Gates. His body language, Seth Gates, suggests he is extremely nervous with the situation. The girl, on the other hand, seems at ease. Her right leg is crossed over her left, her suspended foot bouncing. His legs are bent at the knees, his feet resting beneath his seat. The girl's right arm hangs lazily over the side of the chair, leaving her left hand free to play with her hair or take sips from her Blue Moon. They look good together, this couple, but it looks like she likes him more than he likes her. But he has no reason to look elsewhere. Surely he cannot find better. And so the two continue to talk, her laughing and light, him soft-spoken and avoiding.

Two old ladies. To quote Brad Rodrigues misquoting Bill Corbett: "They bore me."

A woman who looks familiar to me is sitting by herself, talking on her telephone. She waves at a blonde mom who waves back, then walks past her into the restaurant.

Bald businessman, cheating on his wife.

Eight women and one man at a table in the far corner. His wife's work friends, undoubtedly.

Where are the young girls in tight sweaters and skirts? Where are the bright teeth and sharp jaw lines? Where are the gaggles of giggles and sweet perfume and weshouldn'tbeoutthislatebutweare?

To Swim the Treeline

There was a time in late August
where the wind moving through
the trees sounded like the ocean
and love was enough. That time

does not exist for us now. Like
pre-teen television actors, we
would dream of a future life:
To be kissed on a picnic table,

while our friends went swimming.
To be only honest. Only truthful.
Cast the liars to the chlorine and
let them twist and flail. To sink

was an unacceptable compromise.
Where did we go wrong? Why
can't I lay in the tall, tall grass
and think of only golden things?

It is so easy to fall,
but never backwards.

3 Year Daydream

Take a walk to the back garden,
to find me sitting at the table.

Smoking and drinking wine, we
can talk about the weather

and how we rather like the rain.
I can read aloud some lines

of flowery prose, and you can
touch my arm like you did

when you loved me. Before the death
of hope, when I'd fall asleep

on a long drive home and wake
to find you humming along

with a song on the radio, rain
as percussion. And we could remain

that way forever, even if
the word now means "a day".

Saturday in Newport, 2 am

Free glances of artfully
formed peaks, bronzed
flesh under eyeless skies.

Under dull red waters
she says: Get your fill now,
'cos I won't be here in

the morning. Broken shells
made a cut on my foot and when
I find the slit, shoeless, I brush it

with a finger and think of you.
First meetings with remarkable
impressions last a long walk

down the boulevard. Oh! my
Indiana cornhusker, my midwestern
belle, how you've entranced

me. From routine to rapture,
violent change like Northeastern
weather patterns. You've blown

me away, away. And it feels
like it's great to exist at this
point in time. A portrait of

two nudes off the Newport
coast, strutting and preening,
The most beautiful birds of color.

A Little Fucking Revolution (Title Stolen from John Gillooly)

We speak of change, but what do we know
on the subject? Weight, sure. The style's
grown and kindness was left behind
some time ago. I headed south

with every intention of hiding out

down there. Blood's too thick
for such heat, skin's too thin
for my home. A self-made
family is a lucky one --

we all wish we could bed each other.

And where's the sin in that?
With a new hat, I look five
years younger -- subterfuge is
what the present is not.

We should all change our dress

every now and again. To keep
the new Us, even if the fanboys
disagree. If DC can do it, why can't we?
Trade capes for blue jeans,

sleek unitards for kneepads. A little

less compromise would be a cold
drink, refreshing like a first kiss
under a rain-soaked picnic table.
We have ideas of how we should be,

so, when were we bought? Try

to remember the time less tangible.
Things were things and we did
what we wanted. Betrayal is an ugly
act, especially when self-inflicted.

We need to get out of this town,

with or without the spectres
we love. It's a crippling thought
when we realize: they don't need us
as much as we think

we need them.

1336 TPA to PVD

How hopeless it is to watch
the sun rise when you've
no place to go
but home.

Untitled

We expect public restrooms to be
empty, like we expect lovers

to answer our calls by the second
ring. Neither should exist

when we're not inside them. It's
a terrible thought, but one we're

all too happy to share. So what
is it all about? We want those

hearts before our stupid names.

Amityville

Catch your own reflection
in the mirror, like a demon
and move into the cellar.
Our mind is a dirty one,

so don't like me for the fuck
of it. Do it 'cos you need
me like a bad habit, or
a dream you won't forget.

Bless and sanctify this house.
The floorboards burn with
diet coke. We would climb
the walls if we thought it

would make a difference.
Why have you forsaken us?
I didn't get that memo, did it
cross our cluttered desks?

Just Before the Epilogue

I told them to be brave. To be honest.
To be strong -- always and forever.
Your students must have thought me mad:
"Who is this man with wild hair, making us

read poems we have heard in commercials
for jeans?" And we had a laugh, you and I,
'cos we knew the score. We had both been
there before. I was giving advice, writing

notes to a fifth-grade self, the one you knew
so well. The boy who you sat with by
the pool when the August heat was vicious,
teaching him fractions -- or was it long

division? Time has been mostly kind to us.
We did and do what we want, what we
were born for. I go to bed when the sun
rises and I wake when it sets. I dream

of troubadours and drinking wine with
Frank O'Hara. I want to write the next
Great American Novel. This is what I do,
exist outside of the expected. And you?

You are the reason for people like me.
Teaching is not about book reports
and field trips and state capitals. The
charge is much greater. You take baby

fat ten year olds who live in their worlds
of oversized t-shirts and baseball caps
and you push them. You test them. "B's
are grand, but what makes you?" You taught

me, yes -- but you guided me towards here.
I met you at the right moment, a perfect
storm of pre-teen over-dramatics and awkward
charm. And you saw that, and got to the core.

Made me brave. And honest. And strong.
Always and forever. The words have stayed
with me, arranging themselves into line
breaks to sound beautiful. To have meaning,

like a thank you.

Illustrations of Night Landscapes

Oh! how beautiful it is to think of you
at night -- when the trees
are painted black and flat.

The sky is blue and the air
is always full of music, birds
singing. It makes me feel

for a moment. And sometimes that's enough.

Things I Hate

Having friends in other places.
Seeing names I know with last

names I do not. Marriage and
babies having babies. The lack

of love radio stations show for
their bands. Mayonnaise:

the condiment, not the song.
Misspellings of words we know

we know. American beer. Sundays.
The whirling sound the laptop

makes when I leave the room.
Ghosts, 'cos they're not as

romantic as we make them out to be.

Ghost Poet

.












.

(Editors: Yeah...we don't get it either.)

[Beautiful houses...]

Beautiful houses and
beautiful homes, we hate
when our days are in
someone else's hands.

To be a passenger is
a nauseating experience,
like finding the ones
we love in the bed

of another. And it makes
us weep, though we know
it's deserved. Vicious sons
of bitches get the chair

not an olive branch. I've
written this all before.
I'm sorry I'm not
sorry to repeat. It's my

bag, baby, and you best
eat it all up 'til your sunk
en cheeks pop full. Some
academics say the current

generation is too personal,
they don't consider
the whole. Well I think
it's true, 'cos who cares

about people nowadays?
Not I, says I, says I.

The Copywriter

I will be confident. I will make her
very sure of her movements, for
there is no time to fumble about.
I may be the best cardboard suitor
this world has ever seen. Maddening,
isn't it? Keeps me up late at night.

They always leave dissatisfied, 'cos I'm not
as famous as I claim to be. Sorry sorry, lady.
It wasn't as good for you as it was for me?
Psh, I'll write you in a novel, and ask
Jennifer Beals to play you on the t.v.
She'll say yes. She thinks I think she's god.

And she's right, and godly, and sweet.
Talk me to sleep, not to death,
and I will never leave you when I wake.

No Poets

No more dead bodies for Daddy tonight.
He's seen his fair share, and is nothing
but ready for bed. No more chests filled

with heavy lead, no more heads crammed with flippant thoughts.

'Cos our existence
is a haunted one -- and baby?
We've been exorcising.

No gods decapitalized or vegan dishes mispronounced,

snapshots are all we've got --
so why isn't that enough?
They may be more fun than the fun

to be had while you're wild singular and swigging

and swinging about that blade.
This is the sound of progress.
This is not the sound of successful

progress. No poets renting sheds in the backyard,

made of foil and lightning bolts.
No poets beating lovers with found
objects until they bleed: a way out.

No poets are needed, and for that we are very very sorry.

Dancing In the Dark

They wore their clothes 'til the stitches
popped and frayed, and the girls

let their dresses fall
to their ankles.

What does it mean to "wear"?,
They yelled at us, naked by the fire.

And we didn't know what to
say, when it came to the question

of wearing. 'Cos we've been worn-out,
but that's different. Or is it?

What do we do when our clothes
have worn through?

Stop wearing them down
and stop wearing them.

We had such a better grasp
on this last week, when we'd wake

from dreams about gun play
in Seattle, or was it L.A.?

The television can only do so much
for us, and will not help with problems

of the hearth and nubile co-eds
strutting around it, forsaking

their clothes and all others. The idea
has gotten away from me but

will come back, like the sharp sticks
that are coming for our eyes.

Have we seen too much of the girls?
Have we worn out our welcome?

Oh! ha ha. There are many meanings.

Crying to Confuse the Brave (for Frank O'Hara)

"It is a summer day, and I want to be wanted
more than anything else in the world."
- Frank O'Hara

We want to want though we know we should not.
Whiter teeth. More hair, less hair,
all of the friends or none of the friends.

Whatever gets us through the day, we think.

And we're not wrong. If I had a better body,
I wouldn't wear this sweater. I'd go shirtless
with a duster on and let everyone admire

me: The Dennis Reynolds of Warwick, Rhode Island

with weaker cheekbones. We all want better
features, too. We want not a dry seat in
the house, or theatre, or coffee shop. To

cause sweatynaughtyaching feelings is a beautiful

daydream. Like the one we had about the girl
beneath the bridge off Atwells Ave, you know,
the one with the anchor tattoo. How we pulled

her panties down, just to find another pair.

This is how life seems sometimes. Too many
articles of clothing and not enough payoff.
Everybody's got their something, says

Nikka Costa. Bushy chests with ROAR ROAR

or busty ones with how you doin', fella? Twenty
felt nice, but went by like a warm summer night:
Ian would buy cases of Miller Lite that were

empty by Monday morning. Poems were type

written on comforters while naked coworkers
sat posed in knee socks. There was a window
in the bathroom that could never be closed

completely, but we liked it that way just fine.

50

She reaches out to me, in the blue/light-blue static
of our everydays
to say: Hello. I have been reading your words.

And I laugh to myself at seven thirty,
'cos it made the morning less harsh. Refreshing

to say the least. She wonders if I remember her:
We haven't spoken in ages. Visiting her at school
plays doesn't seem that long ago.

I was rewarded with a peck on the cheek. A pink lemonade
that made me ill when I drank it too fast. But now,
after years, she still digs my format.

Punctuation and subject matter. Likens me to a Salinger
and believes I will die alone in the woods.

In a good way, though.

The best way possible. She says my words are those of insomniacs,
over-tired underclassmen who ache for meaning
and a sense of desperate hope. We are realists

and we still exist. She does the work I have not,
my errant PR girl. And when I'm rich and superfly,
she will get her 15%.

[Every answering machine...]

Every answering machine
greeting sounds the same,

like a mulligan I pissed away in a sand trap.

I thought
I told you
I was raking.

The years pass on a slow
decline, that is to say --

we have had better. But we don't remember.

We're not
as greedy
as we seem.

You don't bring me flowers
anymore, though, you never

did. The audience is tired from the constant

droning. I lost
the nerve
to believe.

Darling, we've been through
this. If you want to fuck me,

you should know: I was lost then, and I'm lost

now. I'm just dying
for you to tell me
where to go.

Happy Birthday, Darling

Wait for me!

I've got a tongue out and an arm off,
so is this what it means to be alive?

A cannonball fuckstorm of shading/bells/fancy hats was too much

to handle. I want to rename us "Zeus"
and throw collectible figurines at each other --

just 'cos we know we can. That unnecessary storm

I was talking about? Started fourteen years ago today.
Congratulations.
You have known the world.
And have destroyed it.

I feel like breaking beds, but will settle for blowing
out some candles.

We haven't the energy anymore. Repetition is the new black,
and we look great in these dresses.

Wait for me.

Anchors

Thoughts like discreet whores,
spreading legs so they can
fly. They are the wing'ed kind, that float
above the bed. Making marks on the ceiling

with their heels. Their love is a buzzing
sort that makes us feel 15 again.
We hurry home for a handjob
from our first loves, awkward and a little

painful. After, when we sit
on the stone steps with knees shaking,
we wait to part. The Great Pick-Up.
Why do we long for friends' backyards?

They do not seem to recognize our larger
frames. Our deeper voices. The new scents
and costumes we've adopted. But, still --
we want the tradition like never before.

This is what happens in dirty warehouses,
when the world outside is warm and bright like
it used to be. We can fool ourselves, playing pool
in the basement. Sneaking glances at the girls

in the still-damp bikinis, waiting for a miracle
like age or money to make us magnetic. Grills
and bicycles and discarded mediums of self
expression keep us hopeful and all la-la-la.

16 Year Flashback

They perched themselves on the balcony,
screaming for deserved relevance.
"We made you who you are."

Like back in 1996, when we wished to be
older, so we could drive to the video store.
To save the ones we love.

They planted the rocks
that lined the path
that we chose.

And we thought we could forgive them.

But they want justification. "We
were right. Now dig our masterpiece."
And dig we shall. 'Til we discover

their meaning. Their purpose. Yes,
she should be nude. And yes, there should be
more blood. But that is not their way.

In a time of compromise,
they offer none.
We should give them money.

Support. Forget what we think and remember

what we knew: The smell of pavement
in late April. Eating a melting cone
on the hood of a borrowed car. Taking

things less seriously, when finding them
deadly so. We should talk on the phone
more often. Send letters of love

when the moon is down.
Learn the art of
the sleepover.

Check closets for ghosts before bedtime.

I Have Seen Your Form

And we pass like we don't know
each other, which is sad, 'cos
we used to think that we did.
There are too many words,

but we only use Hello. Sam saw it coming

from a block away. Berlin made him
sharp. I have never been on
holiday and that is unfortunate.

Why can't we stop for a minute
so I can look at your boyfriend?
I didn't catch his face, or

the cut of his jib. I don't know if he's

righteous. Or good or clean. Don't
I get a say in the matter?
It feels like I should, even though

it's undeserved. You looked beautiful

and healthy, but smiled like you hid
something underneath. Not a sadness,
but a lie. And I want to get inside you.

To find an answer.

But we would have to stop
for a minute. And I don't
see that as an option.

Carry It With You

Traded ocean views for a haunted house.
She seems quite content
with her decision to leave. "I don't hear

the music anymore, floating across the bay

from the restaurant". She called on me
to visit once, when our heads were buzzing.
Loud and light. We walked onto the porch

and wondered about the neighbors. "I don't smoke

but I do tonight," she said. And I told
her how funny it was to be there.
I had wanted to know her, even before I tied

her to a song title. And the lyrics

were unkind, but true, and I thought
you would appreciate the gesture. You did.
We like to play silly games, a back and forth,

'cos we don't know what we mean. Or want.

Four-Letter Words

"Home" is the most vulgar and misued word
like "ironic" or "love".
It doesn't mean what it used to.

He told me: Meat is murder, while he shined
a new pair of boots. 'Cos there's no substitute
for fine Italian leather. I was told to take him

out tonight, 'cos he don't live there anymore.

She Is A Lightning Bolt

She says, Now is not the time. And I don't know
what she means. Is it the weather? The day or hour

we've chosen to meet? I guess it doesn't matter.
Because the time is not now. But if not now, when?

I have been haunted for too long
by your face. Your skin. Like I killed you

and now I cannot be left alone. You are the heart
beneath the floorboards. The name across my wrist.

The ringing in my ears when I descend the stairs
too quickly. We can hear it in the walls -- it calls to us.

The reasoning is: something like that. Something like improper?
Or unacceptable? Or is it something like: I want you.

I don't trust me with you. You make me shine and hate myself,
all in the same glorious moment. Is it something like that?

'Cos I won't be around forever. I am in need of a new ocean, for this one
is filled with bodies. And spectres. And spectators. I drowned

them all before they could profile me. You're the one that got
away. And you are brilliant to keep your distance.

Stomp & Stomp & Clap & Stomp

"Well, I said: My god, he don't exist.

And even if he did, he wouldn't like this.

She said she thought of me last night,

while she was reading Lovecraft by the floodlight..."

We will invent new words! Or, if we are tired & lazy,

new meanings! 'Cos the ones we've got mean shit these days.

Let us nail them to the wall with our science & staples

& paintbrushes. You will know the size & shape

of our supermeal(s). See? The word should be underlined red.


We will invent new lives! Things need not be the way they are,

but they do if we want to pay the bills. Let us drink our beer

without a yelling crowd, for just this one time. Could they swallow

the change? Would their throats tighten & resist? We could win

awards for our deeds, or at least a seat at a better table.


We will invent new ways to forget! (That line does not perform,

but the concept will). Won't it be something when they realize

this space is not for beautiful words? Won't it be something

when they realize this is a testament to the things we don't remember?

To the things we are shaking & drowning & aching to ignore?

260 Weeks of Beautiful Sex

There is a tastefully nude picture of a girl being double-teamed
by two men, on a sofa from the early nineties. The top
of her face has been cut off

by the frame, but I wonder: Is it you? Have you been found?

The curvature of her breast is not
unlike yours -- a slight point. As if to stand up and say "Hello!" or "I'm a slow
wave and will pull you out to sea". The coloring

of her skin is from your spectrum. I know the taste: lightly bronzed
from the beach, or sunbathing topless in your backyard
while your parents were at work. She is being handled, but not

unkindly.

One man, made of torso and knees, is between yours --
arching your back as he pulls you around him. The other

man is clutched in your right hand, but that's not what
I'm drawn to. There is a bracelet on your wrist that I bought
for you at a flea market.
Elegant and understated, much like

yourself. And the metal on bare and moist flesh
makes me miss you more than I ever have. And your lips

are puckered and your cheeks are sucked in like
you're being fed. Nourished. And it's all that I can do
to try and stop looking at the picture, but it's the closest

I've been to you in years.

Like when we ate pizza and drank wine and walked through Newport in the snow and I let you wear my coat 'cos you didn't have one (it was warmer earlier in the day) and when we got back inside we kissed almost by accident and you straddled my lap as I took off your shirt and carried you into my bedroom where we made love that night without protection and you cried afterward saying "I'm not sad but I'm not happy either" and "I'm glad we can use each other" and a month after you left I called Laura by your name because my apartment was so very used to your face.

You are the coldest and most far away, and I am to thank
for this. Would two-hundred and sixty weeks of beautiful sex be overkill?
Would you eventually tire of me?

I was never tired of you. Just tired. But every woman I have ever written
is you in new clothing.
Shorter hair
or a darker shade.
The repetitive act is

sad, really. But you look happy
in the picture
with your new friends.

We should all hang out sometime. I mean, if they're cool.


(Click here for the spark.)

Little Epiphanies on the Fire Escape

When we hug, you say
I have a smell to me. And I ask
"what does it remind you of?"

You say, you're not sure.

We should adopt new scents, take
the ones we know and hold and tear
tether from memory. I won't remember

your neck in the glow of a clock

radio. The unnecessary shower. Sleepy
eyes. This is what we need, to purge
our banks. Start clean as if we were born

today, or in a barn yesterday. We tell jokes,

but we know why they're not funny ha-ha.
Funny-sad is our wheelhouse, but I'm partial
to roundhouse. 'Cos it should be about

cycles. Going back to the beginning. To cut off

our noses would be a beautiful thing, still
I can't pick up the boxcutter. 'Cos you've got
to the core of us. Like a tiny bomb,

you beep and flash, nestled in our brains.

The Nurse of Spring

I am sitting on a park bench in the middle of Gotham
and there is a mother with a young daughter walking
by. It's windy, you see, and the young girl's hair
keeps getting in her face. The mother sees this and smiles.

She throws her arms out and her pink shirt gets carried by
the wind. "Let's get blown away!" She yells to her daughter
and they go running down the street, backs pushed by the breeze.

Ian tells me to check out the skirts, so I do. And I did.
A wolf in wolf's clothing. The city is warm and bright,
The Nurse of Spring. It heals us, and this place.

I hear no barking of dogs. Only clanks and trees
swaying. Yes, I said trees. There is a stillness to this
photograph and I think of calling you. So I do. And I did.

Punch-drunk, like the last day of school. We can say whatever
we want to, 'cos we won't remember in the morning. Halfway
through our conversation about dorm life and the importance

of a good thermos, I realize it's not you on the line.
And that's curious to me, but the woman is good
company. So I will sit on the park bench

in the middle of Gotham and tell stories. And maybe
some lies. 'Cos I'm not supposed to be here anyway.

[The smoke has weight]

The smoke has weight. It gets carried
on the wind, like a plea:
Don't go o o o o o o...

But I must. Breath has
no weight. It just floats around our heads
and dissipates. I watch it move

until there's nothing left. We are fighting
for service. A message for girls
in tight black pants with zippers to nowhere.

We don't know who you are, but you look
like a girl we used to love. A girl
who likens herself to Temperance Brennan,

'cos she knows fiction is more real than real.
We don't know why she comes
to us, five drinks in, but she does.

And she will. Until a nerve is struck and pulled,
extracted from our strained throats.
The smoke will lead her to us.

Greetings from Miami

I am not one for shorts. My legs are too thin for my body type. It shouldn't matter, I am deadly handsome with a two-thousand dollar smile. (Bares them fangs.)

But Miami is shorts-weather, and accepts no substitutes. Short pants? She says "nay". Capris? Those are the same.

She was good to me once, Miami was. It was a long trip through a small state and I found her again, tanning and sipping pink chemicals through a straw. And she sat up to greet me. To give me a mission. A dare: I bet you won't.

Miami likes scary movies before bed, but only the first eight minutes. She knows what happens when the lights go out. And then what happens when the sun comes up.

I brush my teeth with toothpaste on a middle finger and greet her "good day" with lips and tongue: I would have kissed you anyway.

Monday Is For Lovers

Trees like skeleton bones
and eyes of black tar.
Spooky, no?

The Februarians

And when the time is right, you'll tell him?
And if he's in need, you'll hold him?

Make a promise now, and I will make you up

a bed. 'Cos that's all we've really got at the end of the day --
our word(s).
I will hold you to yours. I will hold you, too.

A mouth is no place for secrets, like a blasphemer
under a church pew. We know exactly where to look

when we want vindication. We are the Village Lynch Mob,
so open up and give us your babies. Babies?
They don't stay little forever, best to nip

the problem in the womb. Purity is a word, yes --
but it means little these days. It means naivety and

forgiveness. We have no need for such things, 'cos

we like the Dark and the Wrong. And the Mistake?
Don't even get us started. We've got one foot in the bag
and are going for the gold. So spill your cranberry

juice down my collar, stick your thumbs in my jeans
and pull me close. Belt me with a buckle and suck

my mouth dry. It's all about subterfuge, and knee socks

make the perfect disguise when the rest is bare
and shaking with nerves. Shaking with longing
and regret and every other desperate syllable

we can think of. And we will not be nervous,
we will be like conquistadors. Or comfortadors.

I listened to your album seven times last night.

Distance, Part Four: From A Distance, To Say --

In another life
we could've been rockstars.
But this is not that life.
Far from, in fact --
I'm just a poor banker's son.
I've got the keys to the car,
but I don't know where I'm going.

Labored breathing
keeps me bound to the bedroom.
And I don't eat
as much as I did
when I was young and hungry.
I'm pulling back the shades,
but never sleep when I'm angry.

Counting blue jays
from the trunk of my car.
But I keep spacing out
and losing track.
I force myself to start again.
Forgetting every conversation
that I have ever had.

Wanted to be a doctor,
so I could hang frames on the wall.
But I left in the rust,
withdrew my name
from office registries.
I broke through every cabinet.
Can I borrow twenty dollars?

I was offshore
for a while but I landed back here.
With a harpoon grabbed from
the hallway closet.
A handmade truth said: The Spine Is Mine.
I found some willing men
and hunted down a white whale.

We heard crickets
and both felt foolish for a while.
On a fire escape
with a bottle of rum,
we wished that we could talk of that town.
I'm an ideas man.
You're the pretty language and meaning.

Flashing lights
replacing smoke and city heat.
We lost our keys,
we searched our pockets deep.
And left the house with an axe to grind.
Not believing for a while.
But I want us believing the same thing.

Holding tongues
is not that hard to do.
Wrote my dissertation
on the art of
knowing when to.
Sometimes a boy is better.
Better seen than heard.

Distance, Part Three: Into the Woods

(see: "Bargaining".)

(see also: Into the Woods - 3 January 2011)

Distance, Part Two: Chirping (On Camera)

They moved their cars into the street, so they could practice in the driveway. Making sacrifices as a group project. We prayed for snow and slipped away. Back at your house you said that we couldn't sleep in the same bed...but we could share the same room and air. I've settled for less before, I said. So I fell asleep at eight that night, so I could wake back up at ten. To say I got a good night's sleep. To say I shut the engines down.

And I was dreaming of falling down a lightly dusted snow-covered staircase. When I stood again, I saw the messy/violent/imprinted angel and she was crying.

I stayed on the floor until I heard birds, then I climbed into your bed. We pretended we had stayed that way all night. We pretended nobody knew. Now shake the ashes from the tray, and wrangle all the bottles up. But when the hardwoods prove too cold for you, you can always hop back into bed. And I said: If for some reason you change your mind, it's okay. We can reschedule to a day that suits you better. When you're feeling at your best.

But we won't tell him, 'cos that would cause trouble with a capital T. So keep this secret like you keep our baby safe. Close to the vest.

Now, I don't scare easily but I startle like a leaf. So please, don't tease me when I'm filling up the sink. And what's it matter when there's matters here of trysts and conviction? I'm a scholar married to a corporate lawyer in Sherman Oaks, California. And when it rains and it thunders? We meet as one, under covers. So take your phone off the receiver and put it back when you leave here.

Distance, Part One: Coquette

I watch your feathers float
from the spare bedroom
and spill out into the hall.
I want to set you on the mantle.
Can I push the ringlets on your
cheek behind your ear,
if that's alright?
It's my favorite place to live.

I hear your silver voice
leaking from your mouth
and carving through the walls.
Must I lock it with the jewelry?
You've got the tidiest and the
jauntiest little figure
I've ever seen.
You control the games of forfeit.

You dream of a thrill not known.
Of a passion that you
can't imagine.
And a life that plays upon a stage.
And you think the worst of me
'cos I sneak around
trying to steal your oranges.
A man, he needs his vitamins.

You might find me boring but
I don't care. I don't care.
I don't care. I don't care.

Distance: An Introduction

The Stages of Distance

1. The distance is denied: "No Distance lives here, you must have the wrong number."

2. The distance is realized: "Huh...I wonder what that look meant."

3. The distance is bargained with: "How about one hour? Twenty minutes?"

4. The distance is accepted: "The time has come for drinking and crying and singing 'I Started A Joke' at karaoke."

You may be asking yourself, Gentle Reader, what is distance? And how do I know if I have it or not? To answer the second question first, shut up. To answer the first question very indirectly, read on. Below are examples of statements/problems/occurrences that have passed across my desk, illustrating situations where distance is questioned. I have also provided answers. Confused yet? I hope so.

I have lost my child (in WalMart):
No.
I have lost my child (to The Suicide Life):
Yes.
That ketchup is near that salt shaker:
Really?
I can hear your heart:
Almost.
I can feel your heart:
Too much.
I am your heart:
Right on the nose.
I drove past your house today:
More information, please.
I drove past your house today and I was playing that mix you made for me. And when I neared your mailbox I had the vision of me rolling out of the car and letting it crash into the side of your house underneath the window where your parents sleep. I didn't, of course. But at the same time, I had another vision that you were getting the mail and saw me, so I stopped to say hello. And I told you I was in the neighborhood (which you didn't believe but accepted anyway,) and we decided to go for a drink...somewhere close because you had to be in work by eight the next morning. A drink turned into two, two into several. The early evening turned into night and a friendly drink turned into hands and lips and The Coasters' "Down In Mexico" and moist foreheads and everything was flashbulbs and grainy film footage. We locked, visited old haunts and places we used to love. You cried after, before you went to sleep, and told me that you weren't sad. You didn't know what you were. The next morning, you kissed me long on the mouth and dressed slowly, and told me that you were glad we could use each other. That was the end of the vision as I drove past your house:
You get it. You get it completely, you sad son of a bitch. Now come here if you're in need of comfort, of warmth, of making the space seem smaller for a moment.

Bang bang, babydoll.

We used to know what our homes sounded like.
They spoke in a way not entirely unfamiliar
to us, like a lullaby. We were gently rocked

to sleep.

Now there is a branch and it scratch
scratch scratches against my window and you can't sleep
when you dream of monsters from 1953.

You want me to trim the part that hits

the vinyl siding. And I think that I may.
'Cos you reach for me in the night, to say:
Is this part of you? Am I touching a piece?

And I laugh and tell you: Yes. You are.

There is a beaten path through the woods
that I used to picnic upon -- and it was good.
Mind the ants and bears, they just want

a tiny treat. Something nice to eat.

You talk to me and there is lightning shooting
from your bones and the skin stretched across
them is smooth. A kind of perfect, but

you know I hate labels. We, the collective,

like the idea of the puzzle when it's naked
and warm and pressed together. A bed
that misses the company. But I haven't decided

who is on my pint glass.

Even as the words come out, I imagine
an amalgamate, and I laugh at the last
four letters. 'Cos that's all anyone wants, right?

To be like O'Hara, without the dune buggy?

To be unapologetically vain and wild and fucking
brutal?! To say "I've read your words about me
and I want to buy you a wedding!" Or maybe just

a cup of coffee and a room for the night. Do you see

that this is what happens at three a.m.? Menacing
every love we've ever known for hours? Not with
the phone call. Or the letter. Or the song. But with

the pining. The file folders. Our attempts at charm.

I have tried to love your god, and I have tried to love
your family. I have tried to eat your cooking and have
tried to stop your sadness, but I am not a man.

I am a child with a gun permit. Bang bang, babydoll.

Did I give you a nickname unique? Did I give you a song
to sing in the shower or on your long drive
back to the countryside? Did I tell you I loved you?

Did I then eat your heart? Save the remnants

for the collection? 'Cos I'm a hoarder, even with,
ESPECIALLY with words. And I don't know
when to stop, or how. Like the vague

confession, it means nothing. To start well-

meaning. To wear the white cape
and to talk on the telephone late.
I am a creature of habit. I am a sorry

lie. But I can still make you laugh.

No Man Shall Be Ranked

No man shall be ranked.
We changed the "will" to "shall"
'cos we like gravitas. We dig

the shit out of it. They (men) shall sharpen
their skiis. Sharpen their skies.
The words are similar, aren't they?

No man shall be ranked,
the words are close enough. Almost,
like horseshoes and hand soap.

Or is it handshakes? Wait, wait. Let's get
over this. I even bore myself.
I could bore you too, if you'd like.

No man shall be ranked
until they tear that mountain down.
Until the rings are polished

on the sleeves of a tuxedo jacket.

An Apartment of Deer

Three women with whom I've lain beside contacted me in a two week span. There was a surprise, an expectation, a mystery. We spoke of belts/hiking/Jesus Christ, but not necessarily in that order. No, no...we keep it loose. It's cool, it's calm, it's whatever.

Do we speak of the past?
Is the future more appropriate?

We don't have the answers. Not now, at least.

I feel the need to weekend in Cape Cod and walk along the stormy coast underneath the rainclouds. Hunting the ghosts of better days. 'Cos it's clear now that "better" means "more entertaining", right? More harmful to the body but less to the mind? Just so we know, so we're on the same page. My thumbs hurt almost as much as my index fingers, 'cos I ripped twelve-hundred pieces of tape yesterday, causing a god damn American-Vietnamese conflict. Understudying my role, is all. The problems remain the same..

Do we drown spectres? How about spectators?
Or do we invite them into our homes/beds/empty chests?

These are the questions we need answered:
In text messages. Mailed packages. Worn book jacktes.

Warwicktown

Where's the party at?
Ha ha! There is no party.
Sad times, Warwicktown.

Job Interview

First off, we'd like to welcome you to the team. We've been reviewing your application and we must say you are quite the catch.

Your hobbies and extra curriculars imply that you are vaguely sexual and strangely literal, two things we look for in a prospective employee. Your dress implies that you care very little about your appearance, but we all know that it takes you ten...no, twenty minutes to dress in the morning. And the hair! When it's not styled like Jimmy Neutron, it looks like you have recently suffered a mental breakdown. Again, a giant plus sign in our book.

You show emotion and excitement, not for the future or current relationships, but for procedural dramas and works of flash fiction. This inability to connect with the "real world" ranks you high among our applicants. Looking through your iPod (which you have generously included with your resume,) we see that you fancy a wide selection of music: random bands prominently featured in cult movies/television shows, folk rock meant for leaving home, pop-punk from the late nineties, and Bob Dylan (for propriety's sake, naturally.)

We like all of this and would like you to come work for us. Do you have any questions for us? Yes, you will make enough to pay rent and buy that whiskey you like. And yes, you will get dental...we know how important those teeth are to you and your mother.

Come back, cloud

The one I love is dying in a hotel room. The one I love is dying in a western world. I can save you, or I can erase you. But there is nothing I can do to stop the day. Come back, cloud. Come back. The one I love is temporary. Is hind-sighted. Is a memory child. But I can lose you, or I could loosen you up. But there is nothing I can do to fill my time. Come back, cloud. Come back.

I play the game of guessing alliances now. I could suss out the details, though it may take a few days. I can invite you, or I could freeze you out, but there is nothing I can do to dent the sky. Come back, cloud. Come back. I can touch myself to please you and I can sink much deeper than usual. But there is nothing I can do to change the score. Come back, cloud. Come back.

Neon Parade

Let's take this god damn show on the road!

Making trumpet noises with our mouths
is not as hard as it looks, but it is as fun.

New Again

Like Magellan, I thought I had found a home. It turned out to be a different piece of land. I traded in my busy bed, a quiet house in the country, for stability. Concrete-like and solid. The trade was ill advised, I know this now.

I spent the last week in a humming room killing myself. Not The Suicide Life -- don't misunderstand me. Not a bloody, haunting symbolism with bathtubs and an empty pill bottle. But a reworking of life in its current state.

The get-up has never been washed, never hung outside to dry. But what was underneath was not the problem. The past self had it all right, with walls of beautiful minds and watching the sun rise during the dead time of the year.

Why can't we be like we were? I was thinner then, had more hair then. The funds were lower, but I didn't come so quickly. A complete lack of care. Even the nights spent staring at the tiger painting, weeping into my seven and soda.

We should all kill ourselves more often. 'Cos it's not about death, baby. I'm not about that scene. It's all about the violent change now, the kind that guts houses and car interiors and closets and empty chests.

Kiddo's Not Heartbroken Over This

Are you still in love with god?
Does he make you hurt in all the right places?

Heathens carry grudges,
not crosses. The weight
is not as great.

And your man -- is he spiritual?
Can he do what I could not?

Don't let him disappear
your name. I've always liked
the lowercase z.

Does he leave you messages in your native tongue?
Send you on scavengers' hunts to pass the time?

We needn't be liars
like we were before. I have no
room for your savior.

Do you believe he has space on his shelf?
Did you ever kneel at night, praying for me?

All I ever did for you
was stay up late with falling snow,
watching you sleep.

What's My Line? b/w Room Service

I pulled the handle like a pantomime
and led a camel through the corridors.
I made a first impression seven times –
Hello, I'm Herb Saunders from Baltimore.

The ballet turned into a pants-fitting.
Nude ballerinas dropping bits of food.
Pull it together 'cos your phone's ringing.
Finish: your snacks and: dancing with your ghoul.

I knocked the door down on my own child
and then skipped through fields of gravel stones.
Coughed up blood until I cracked a smile.
We invoked thee – you answered no, no, no.

We are like puppets with heads exploding –
in our wheelchairs with our guns, circling.

Without A Country

Smoke half a smoke and
kiss me in a crowded room.
We do what we can.

Monster at Twenty-One

She could destroy the world if she wanted to. Wrap its people
around her fingers like black olives –

the way she did when she was young with baby fat.
Running around the yard, an Oleaceous creature on holiday.

(Calculated mischief.)

When her fingers thinned and elongated, woman-like,
the olives would bust when she tried this.

She scoffed at growth. Age as Challenge.
The sobriquet cements: No power in the verse will stop me.

She believes life should be a movie, or a cancelled television drama.

We should always be in love. September should last forever,
and road trips should be beautiful and cathartic – like finding God.
She knows reality is not this.

Would you settle for an early
season of Dawson’s Creek and finishing
a scrapbook? Waiting

for a hiccup – her minute to escape. To leave behind
tired streets and distant friends for a one bedroom in the Village,

or maybe a small town with Southern accents. Anywhere but here.
She walks with a solid step – not heavy, mind you.

It’s a quiet thunder

in the living room. Hey, Gravity? She’s done wit chu. Like a doll
she makes herself. Builds a person from leather boots up. Spouts pop

culture epiphanies before telling your girlfriend to go fuck herself,
then she will sell you a reasonably priced cup of coffee. One sugar?

Or two? You will know her destruction – bra on the stove. Small fire
on the hair straightener. Jeans left in the bathroom like she melted
through the floor. All part of the charm. The charismatic drunk.

She will not go gentle – more like kicking and screaming,
shooting a plastic dart gun. Painfully authentic. Uncategorized.


She’s a monster, you see. She’s not like us.


She’s going to be a firefighter when the floods roll back.
This monster’s going to part traffic like the sea for a fountain soda,

and maybe just the smallest slice of chocolate cream pie.

Prelude To "Monster at Twenty-One"

Grab your party hats,
for the Weather bites vicious.
The end is quite nigh.

[Calm me down...]

Calm me down darling,
and I'll buy you a wedding.
Doesn't that sound nice?

Cepretet

We are the punch-drunk. The obnoxious
ghosts that everybody wants, but no one
will admit to. Offer us a verse as reward
and we will eat its skin. Suck the bones

dry. Or simply steal it, and give it
as a gift to our young. Malicious,
but well-meaning. And we will mean
everything. A wasted syllable is a spilled

beer -- and we love our beer. Do not fuck
with our beer. For we will find your home.
We will find your secret place. We will burn it
to the pavement. Won't you use caution?

There is a fire where a wood shed used to be,
and I'm running low on diet soda. And John
gets nervous for my throat and organs, 'cos
they're not painted like a bicycle. He doesn't

want coughed up body on his rug -- Sarah
just cleaned the place and now she's napping.
He gives a good god damn, and knows I won't
smash in heads with bats or floor boards,

but I will bite out a tongue like a geek.
Chew and spit, blood as ink -- or maybe
a promise. To rely on. Like a good flying bird,
or a dusty basement hymn. From the ground

up comes the sound. And we know it's glorious.

...And Found

Miss Mars,

Is it lonely where you are? Do you wage
war on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis?
These are the things I want to know.

Do they teach you (the chase)?
How to keep from the wind? It must be
the coldest and most far away place.

You are a blonde/black/red planet:
not orb-like, please understand.
You are a destination. Uncharted

territory in the dark, dark sky.
Mysterious...yes! The word fits
like a second-hand smoking jacket.

We are glad to have found it.

Let us plan to meet again, accidentally
of course. Old spines and whiskey and
leather boots will lead the way.

New York Cannonball Finale Fuckstorm

I've only got twenty-four bucks by side, so it looks like I'm drinking my dinner tonight. If I end up in Paramus, I've gone astray. And if the train hits the end of the line, I might stay. But when I get to the city 'cos I begged or borrowed, I don't want to be used tonight to be sent home tomorrow. 'Cos home, that's the fakest joint I've ever seen. Twice as bad as New York, at least here they know what I mean when I tell them I'm tired. They don't show me a bed. They pour me a drink and we get lighter heads. And we play with our coasters without saying a word, as we listen to the whistling of Andrew Bird. Then the conversation starts, man, and that's when it happens. We talk in paraphrases and poke holes in our napkins.

And our logic is sound.
Our views are unbent.
And our reasoning is so god damn magnificent.

Maybe I'll get to the city and visit with John, and he'll answer the door with a girl on each arm. He'll introduce me to Ruffin, a girl with fire-like hair, who will tell me:

1. her uncle's a millionaire. And that
2. her life is depressing, but also makes her laugh. That
3. she sleeps in the tub when she goes for a bath. That
4. she's never liked Tuesdays and never eats meat (though she's not opposed to the occasional treat.) And
5. she broke both her hands once, and both of her feet, when she tried to ride her scooter down Barrow Street.
6. She talks during movies, and
7. never says "like", but
8. she always rereads endings of the books she likes.


You know? I think I'm gonna stay.
('Cos we know that we learn to love the things we hate.)

The God Ship

I hold your lives like a jar, or a cardboard box beneath the stairs. You fill me with stories, with love. Unspeakable love you keep hidden, even from (especially from,) each other. You are all so silly in that way. You keep things buried underneath, but I’ve seen you. Nervous fumbling in the glow of a television screen. Labored breathing. Explosions like little deaths in the bedroom.

And then I’ve heard the lying – fibs and little whites. “I’m sorry.” “Yes.” “No.” “I love you.” And the heavier. “I didn’t.” “I wouldn’t.” “I love you.” Siblings and friends and parents and lovers do not hear everything. They do not get to get at the heart of the matter. I do, and for this I feel sorry for you all.

I wear your photographs and posters and swatches of color like a uniform. My ceremonial dress. You peel and scrape and gut, rebuild off of and on top of me. But I don’t complain...not so much as a groan. Because I am one of meaning. Of reason. The God Ship. I could be your house, and I can be your home – at least for a little while. And then it’s time to leave. And then it’s time to move on and empty me out. Keep me as a memory, for better or for worse.

You cannot forget me. I am The Blackmailer. I am The Invisible Man. I am the one who could destroy your world or improve it. Cut me a mouth where the front door used to be and I will tell you everything I know, everything you think you kept secret. And you will be amazed at what I know, at what you do not.

How could I have missed this?
I do not know.

I must have been blind.
You were only in the dark.

You knew what you needed to, and this is enough. That is not your role – to know everything. The meaning of everything. I am an object – you have assigned me “shelter.” But I am an object. I cannot make such distinctions. I am Shelter. I am Observer. Objects, by their very nature, exist. But what you do with them is the true test. The meaning gives them power.

Sample

"You can't bargain for a home. You build one, from the ground up. This town is fucked - there are red ants in the sugarbowl and black pitch dripping from the birch tree in the backyard."

The Great Escape

Cushion
$2,000 (currently at $835.17)

Destinations (in no particular order)
#1: San Francisco
#2: Brooklyn
#3: Manhattan
#4: Los Angeles
#5: Boston

Job Opportunities
#1: No.
#2: No.
#3: Possibly.
#4: FUCK no.
#5: I haven't heard back.

Pros
#1: Loose hippie women, Dave Eggers
#2: "No Sleep 'Til...", cheaper than the city proper, Galuminum Foil
#3: The center of the world, quoting Ghostbusters lines
#4: (Almost) every Joss Whedon show ever made, a place to get clean (somewhere no one's expecting)
#5: Murph and Sheila

Cons
#1: Hippies...
#2: Hipsters
#3: Living to work
#4: Season Six of The L Word -- excellent show, terrible final season
#5: Sports, "The Boston Accent", still extremely close to Rhode Island

Coquette, Pt. 2

They sit with legs spread,
like an invitation. No, no --
more like a summons.

A notice to appear.

It's a dizzying display, like when I was five
and I got vertigo at the Ann & Hope.
The checkered floor shifted
and slid. The ceiling collapsed.

This is why I have to hold onto:
arms/parking meters/mailboxes
when looking at tall buildings.

Look, I'm telling you, I must sneak glances.
Sipping through a straw
so I don't fall down.

But hark! There is a remedy.
Smaller buildings, or some goddamn pants.

Into the Woods

(Hum: da da daaa. da da DA dada. da da dA DA DA Da da da da da da. da da daaa da da da.)


Don't keep me as necessity.
If I'm just a want, that's good enough for me.
Don't keep me as a time of day.
Or a confidence to steal and hide away.
I will burn your house. I will burn your house. I will burn.

I like your mom, because she's good to me.
Offers kindness and a warm cupper of tea.
I'm not a man, but she's called me one.
Keep the teeth I've sharpened hidden underneath,
like a champion. Like a champion. Like a champ.

No, we've got time. Into the woods with you.
Leave your watch, it's a weight around your wrist.
So you call me at three o'clock.
You don't want to fuck, but the distance makes you cold.
Can you hold me close? Can you hold me close? Can you hold?

And so we drink. Polish off that wine
in a borrowed room on the New Jersey state line.
The nightingales, they keep us company.
'Til your stomach hurts you ask them all to leave.
Fly away, little birds. Fly away, little birds. Fly away.

There's a beat rattling my chest.
There's a traitor here, I wanted you to know.
When you ask, what's that on your tongue?
Say, the money's blood and we need to eat it up.
Makes us safe and warm. Makes us safe and warm. Makes us whole.

My dear, I thank you for your sympathy.
It's a kindness, still, you're not in love with me.
'Cos it's not hard to get lost in time.
As a peasant boy in 1899,
when you weren't there and I was fine. When you weren't there and I was fine.

When you weren't there.

The New Year

“So this is the new year,” Sophie muttered to herself, taking a sip from her poorly mixed cocktail. She made a face as she swallowed the sugary firewater. “I don’t feel any different.” She surveyed the apartment, the get together turned party still churning. The ball had been dropped, the obligatory Auld Lang Syne had been sung/inaccurately slurred. The sound of 2010 pop hits had been replaced with softer music, the clanking of plastic cups acting as crystal. Sophie imagined what was happening in the upstairs bedrooms – explosions of heavy groping and sloppy kissing in the distance. She wished she was one of those lucky ones, locked in a borrowed bedroom, ringing in the new year.

Her daydreaming was interrupted by a presence felt. She turned to find Jess, a friend she had since high school. Jess was tall, dark, skin like caramel. In her outfit, she looked like a villain from a postmodern film noir. Lipstick the color of electric cherries. Slim black dress and smokey tights. Heels that could double as weapons if necessary. “This is the new year!” Jess yelled, bumping glasses with Sophie. Sophie raised her eyebrows unamused and finished her drink. Sensing her friend’s apathy for the celebration, Jess continued. “Any resolutions? Like...not being a stick in the mud?”

“Ha ha,” Sophie mocked, holding her stomach. “No resolutions for me. They’re just one more thing to feel bad about. Like lent... I never understood lent.” Jess nodded, not following Sophie’s logic. “Self-assigned penance,” Sophie explained. “It’s not for me. Wait, let me fix that. It is for me, all year long. I don’t need a resolution to make me feel bad about myself. I majored in self pity.”

Jess laughed. “You’re such a pessimist.”

“I’m not a pessimist. I’m a realist.”

“But you’re not,” Jess scoffed, setting down her drink on a nearby end table. “I’m not going to tell you that people have it worse off than you, you already know that. You’re not stupid.”

“Thank you?” Sophie replied, cocking her head.

“You don’t like your life,” Jess pressed further. “I get that. Everyone feels like that...maybe not as often as you feel like that, but everyone has their days. Not every problem is easy with an easy solution.”

“Well it seems like everyone here has it easier than me,” Sophie commented, turning back to the room full of friends. Jess shrugged, walking towards the kitchen. Sophie followed, picking up Jess’s empty glass from the table. The two friends stood at the refrigerator, scanning for their next libation. They settled on two Stellas.

Jess leaned against the counter, fumbling with the paper wrapper on top of the bottle. “That’s what nights like this are for, Sophie. The promise of a new year – that’s what people hold on to. They want to believe that things get better, even if – ” Jess put up a hand to stop Sophie from interrupting. “Even if things are going well for them. Everyone wants better. I want better, different. You want better.” Jess popped the cap off the bottle and took a sip. Sophie was still fumbling with hers. “So, once a year, everybody puts their best suits or dresses on. They play pretend – they pretend their celebrating, that they’re wealthy or loved or successful for one night. Because if they believe enough, maybe it will happen. Do you need help with that?” Sophie nodded, handing the beer over. Jess reached into a drawer beneath the counter and pulled out a bottle opener, cracked it, and handed the bottle back.

“I get what you’re saying – ” Sophie started. She paused when a herd of partygoers ran past her through the kitchen.

“Fireworks! Front lawn! Now! ” a random man yelled as he disappeared out the door. Jess and Sophie looked at each other, then at the door. The thirty-odd dialogues that filled the apartment had poured out of the house, leaving only one.

“Like I said,” Sophie continued. “I get what you’re saying. But I don’t care what other people are dealing with, or what they want. I’m selfish. I’m twenty-seven years old and I’m still young enough to care about only one person – me.”

Jess sighed. “That’s a fair point. But you have two options. The first, do nothing. Stay trapped in your home town forever, hang out at the same townie bars, working at a job you fucking loathe. Or, the second, do something. Get the fuck out of this place. Be happy. Do something. Do anything. I got out, and look at me. I’m dolled up like Angelina Jolie...less slutty, of course.” Jess smiled, prompting Sophie to laugh. She set her beer down on the counter next to Jess and rubbed her eyes with both palms. Jess rested a free hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“Fuck Jess,” Sophie sighed, leaning into Jess slightly. “I miss being a kid. Things were so simple. The biggest problem was weather Johnny So-and-So invited you to his birthday party, and a hundred dollars felt like winning the lottery. I wish the world was flat like the old days, you know? Then I could travel just by folding a map.”

“I know,” Jess comforted, smoothing out the back of Sophie’s hair. “Life will never be that simple again, but that doesn’t mean it has to be terrible. You’ve always said that money is blood, and that’s true. We need money to survive – money is a big thing. But it’s not the only thing. You’ve got options – airplanes, speed trains and freeways. Any one of them will take you where you want to go, where you belong. There is no distance too great to hold you back from what you need. It’s just distance. It’s just money. You’ll figure it out, I know it. You’re close and, more importantly, you’re ready. Escape.”