One thousand competing voices
and it takes true courage for just one to say,
“I am not your fucking disciple.”
I keep looking
for him to validate me
so I can get some sleep
so I can call my mother
so I can be proud of it
I call him the ever-watched pot
and wait for my blood to boil
we aren’t some people
we defy classification and immobility
nobody has a box that can contain us
.
we are as slippery as leaves, damp and stale
after the snow leaves
we left our shoes at the door a long time ago
back when our feet were still soft
and our toenails were trim
.
we aren’t generalizable
nobody even tries to make an example of us anymore
we could be something just as easily as we could be nothing at all
If a picture is a thousand words,
could I develop one digitally and rearrange
the pixels until I get the long answer
as to why you’re a jackass?
I’m in that immaculate place between Summit and Grand
feeling a thousand things, and nothings at all
when an em dash falls like a cable from the Golden Gate
and delivers my perfect mood, too premature
for it to survive
The answer is no.
If you want to get over your ex,
boy have I just the thing for you
Here’s a bottle of amnesia––
just let one drop over each eyelid
before you go to bed––each night––
until it’s empty
You won’t remember the first letter of his name––
99.99 percent effective!
If that doesn’t work,
try ‘not-giving-a-shit’ lessons—half off when
you purchase the amnesia solvent!
You’ll be blindfolded and escorted to
an undisclosed location, where
you will be thrown into a colosseum of rabid animals,
mercenaries, and Chuck Norris––
fairly soon, you won’t give a hoot about what’s-his-name
And when all else fails, try the 100 percent-organic
superiority (some are calling it a) miracle drug,
Brand New Me (trademark):
Slip some of the dried herb into a soup, shake,
or even a sandwich, and in no time
someone hotter than your ex will show up,
on your doorstep, free of charge, complementary
shipping, mint condition, and ready to love you
and you’ll never have to sleep alone again
.
And if ever you should remember something
as insignificant as a pheromone or his laugh
in someone else’s mouth, take all three at once
Will you overdose? It’s not likely, but there
could be complications––stuff you don’t have to worry about
What’s a little side effect compared to the relapse?
What could possibly be worse than remembering
you were in love with someone?
.
Friend, if you want to forget all of what I just said
Take my advice: when it hits you hard,
buy a new book and read it behind an open window
so the thorns and the nausea can take flight
You may be out of commission for a few days,
but you’re allowed to feel like shit until you don’t
I will prescribe regimens for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never do harm to anyone.
.
I hope it’s like ten thousand volts
whenever he hears my name
I hope that for each time I held my tongue
his starts and stops and fails
.
I will not cut for stone, even for patients in whom the disease is manifest; I will leave this operation to be performed by practitioners, specialists in this art
.
When someone gives him the third
and the fourth and the fifth––chance
I want him to remember
the last time we talked, the smile
melting off my face when I put the pieces together
Because I can forgive him, sure
with time
.
In every house where I come I will enter only for the good of my patients, keeping myself far from all intentional ill-doing and all seduction and especially from the pleasures of love with women or with men, be they free or slaves.
.
But there’s something about trying
to un-see what has been seen
that makes un-experiencing
something that much harder
when there’s still salt in the wound
.
If I keep this oath faithfully, may I enjoy my life and practice my art, respected by all humanity and in all times; but if I swerve from it or violate it, may the reverse be my life.
It comes to me in pieces
but arrives intact, tactfully at his door
where it crosses its legs, bats its eyelashes,
wasting no opportunity to make amends
.
I imagine he hasn’t the faintest idea
the tiniest inkling, the smallest suspicion
that not all gold glimmers,
and not all explosions tick
.
I bet that any minute now,
I will actually hear that euphoric rapture
that settles the score, evens the odds––
I wet my tongue on it
.
Alas, he, the messenger, and myself
are no longer in heart-beating distance
So I sneak another bottle, up my dose
and slip comfortably back into disease
Sorry, I have nothing to write
about today.
So I’ll break these lines
nice and weird, like
so you know it’s a poem.
At least I wrote something today.
Boy, sometimes getting you to call me back
is like trying to get hot water in my dorm
I can get up early––
I can wait for everyone to clear out on the weekends––
I could even tap my fingers impatiently (and call my friends to complain)
but sometimes the damn water doesn’t get hot
And when it does, and I realize that
the entire developing world usually doesn’t have access to safe, cold water
I remember that it’s a luxury
.
You know, I might just boil my own water on the stove from now on
Love songs & poetry
“Sent from my iPhone”
need not apply.
So I heard you guys broke up
And you handled it well, except for that part when you shaved your beard.
And I was thinking about it,
And we all do things to help us move on, like
maybe we feel too much like the person we were
when we were with them, you know?
I used to have long hair, and I cut it after him.
I’m not sure if my hair reminded me of how I felt with him,
or anything like that.
But it’s pretty hard these days,
to go back and unlike all of the photos and statuses,
and something’s gotta give, right?
So what I’m saying is: I get it.
But I miss your beard.
And I want to talk about it.
She says not to worry about the future
To dwell on fate’s slow climb
We almost always land on our feet
The rest is up to time
So you try to think of all the ways he hurt you,
alphabetically,
And you wait for time to make them smaller,
like grapes left out turn to raisins
And when they don’t, you rank them by severity,
so you can build up stamina once the
least lethal are out of the way,
And yet––when you think you’ve finished,
what you have are not non-memories
non-regrets, the opposite of pain, nor pleasure’s twin
Similarly—you are neither a whole person
Nor shadow, dark matter,
You are the absence of him
The tea cup when it’s still warm––
The smoke above the ash pit––
So soon will the world pick you up
Will nobody remember the enormity of his transgression?
He still carries the crimson from your marrow

