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.