great white gravity

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