April 15, 2012 § Leave a comment

It’s Friday night and
I know you’re out there, somewhere,
just like I am in here, somehow,
alone in a diner facing the street.

Do you think of me sometimes?
Or are you still too busy
kissing a body
only good enough to keep you warm?

People say the best couples
are those headed in the same direction

but I never liked the word couple,
which means two, which means nothing

cause you and I don’t lead parallel lives,
entirely compatible but destined
to never meet

nor are we perpendicular
forming a cross
touching once
before pursuing the opposite ends of all space.

Baby you and I are not lines on a plane,
but circles like planets made of stars
circles that neither begin nor end
circles that pull together like magnets
groping blindly in the large darkness
of the world.

Do you think of me sometimes?
Do you wonder about the length of my fingers?
The sound of my laugh?

Because I can hear yours from across this avenue
wider than a million little streets
filled with the voices of an entire population
where yours stands out like a bell
like the face of a missing child in a Sunday crowd.

You and I will never be a couple
only good enough to keep you warm

You and I will be lovers
with bodies like wood,
our friction, a fire,
the only light in this pitch black forest
keeping us apart,
in this forest we will burn down.

I know you’re out there somewhere,
because I can only write this poem
so many times

before I need a face
to build from the voice

lips to construct
around the laugh

a body to keep me warm.

There is a man out on the street,
watching his favorite movie through the glass,
and I only want to touch
to hold your hand.

There are pools of light
in the puddles on the sidewalk
and maybe where you are,
there is rain.

This is the part in the movie
where the blips on the screen are closing in
hearts racing, action building

and if you could see fate from a satellite
you would see us running, our bodies hurtling forward,
toward the same light.


On Universalities

April 7, 2012 § Leave a comment

Tell me where it all starts,
this thing called being human.

With chemistry
In the fusion of gametes
At the development of fingernails
After your first kiss by your parents’ front door
When you lose your virginity
All the nights spent waiting that follow

What is the color
of the sound of our voices
drowning each other out?

And if you could paint the landscape
of collective emotion,
would it be a golden plain,
a mountain range,
or a cold, rocky beach?

Put your fingers here
and show me,
where is the pain?
where is the pressure?
Does your language have enough words
for all the possible permutations of pleasure?

am I
can I be a part of
when I have nothing to offer

except this funny predisposition
to have a heart broken
over and over

Where Am I?

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