Sometimes when I sit
at the computer screen too long
I get the urge to eat cereal
and clean the keyboard-
it has those marks
those gross ones
like dirty finger prints
but they're gray and sticky-
knowing that I'm the only
one who uses it.
Besides him
the one who sat there for an hour.
And I made him toast
until he left at 4am to sleep
(literally not physically, I hope) with some girl-
the one who drove him home from the airport.
Knowing that he couldn't sleep with me,
because three months ago when he left
he had the chance
to see me in red and black lace.
Now someone else has the chance,
so I looked at him and wondered
what he wanted from me
as we sat there and watched "The Skulls".
He told me that his greatest fear was being alone
but he would have "punched that girl in the face"-
the one in the movie-
if she would have told him "I'm in love with you."
Three Months Later
he called and asked me
"So did I make you bitter about this?"
I thought,
No, you're the one
who made me realize
that this isn't like Chicago songs
about Love that lasts forever.
You're the one
who taught me how to write
poems about over-chewed
bubble-gum hearts
and empty packages-
declaring My Love For You.
You're the one
who prepared me
for each time
that you needed a break
by telling me to go away.
I said,
"No, you didn't make me bitter.
You turned me into you."
Then laughed.
Before Her Second Chance
After reading his poem,
I wanted to be eating
Chinese food with my mom
during the summer.
To go back to the time
Before I feared
each time my sister called
it would be that over-used expression
everyone dreaded:
I have some good news…
and I have some bad news
Before I realized how crucial
seven seconds
are and held my breath
to see how long
she
lost hers.
Before I knew
a 47 year-old
healthy heart could
Stop
as quick as it takes
To beat
and that Pacemakers are not
only for nursing-home patients.
I wanted to tell her
how much I needed
her to send me packages
candy corn, conversation hearts
laundry money, Burt’s Bees
and to go with me
on Wal*Mart-Eat N’ Park trips
for Chicken-Noodle-Soup days.
But all I could do was
Bake cupcakes
with red-sprinkled hearts
and joke with her
about how she should have a heart
tattooed
beside that machine.
Intermission at the Drive-In
Popcorn, ice cream
dance across the screen
I get out of his car
S t r e t c h
He comes over
Hugs
to dance with me
to the oldie song.
I go along with it
for a minute
Laugh
Push him away
Months later,
he drives away
before the second
movie begins.
I told him about passion before
of course, I didn’t think
that our relationship
had it.
Maybe that’s why
we left early
to dance
without the popcorn and ice cream
that night.
This Is Why I Write
I.
It was like this before-
I don’t remember when.
It’s just a feeling.
I always long for the past and future.
I’m always trapped in between.
We all are.
It’s like last summer-
holding your hand as we walked across the parking lot
to Northpark Clubhouse.
Could time just stop at that moment?
Could we even go back to that moment?
Nothing can be relived or repeated-
in the same way.
Something will always be changed.
Maybe that’s why someone invented
pictures and cameras.
So we can always stop in a moment,
at least for a few seconds,
and go back to it-
nothing changed.
II.
I never understood the importance of color.
I’ve even seen that commercial-
it promises brighter color for your pictures.
We lived without it before:
in photographs, in movies, in television.
Does that make all of it less memorable?
No-
more memorable.
That’s why that little girl’s coat
in Shindler’s List was red.
Without color I could still look
at that picture of you and me
(the one that was never taken)
and see you holding my hand,
acting like my little boy-
thrilled to be going to play
some game that lets you throw a ball
up a ramp that reminds me of a bowling alley-
score points for tickets!
Or to roll coins into a slot surrounded by skiers-
score points for tickets!
the un-captured smile on my face.
Does it actually matter
that my shirt was pink or
that yours was black?
III.
That’s why I write.
Black ink to white paper.
I can capture more memories with this pen
than any photographer can capture with a camera.
A picture is worth a thousand words
but the words give the picture meaning.
That picture of you and me
that was never taken:
Walking across the parking lot
to North Park Clubhouse
holding hands, wearing smiles
I wrote it down for you.
In Response to Van Gogh's Starry Night
The city gets dark except for the few lights that race across the sky.
Swirling, never colliding, they create radiant, untouchable patterns of light.
Leaving streaks of golden that run together with the mysterious sapphire the sky has become.
Everyone wants to take a ride across the lighted paths but the stairs only guide you to the top of the mountain. Take them any further and the Man on the Moon will pull the stars closer. They are his alone to weave into the sky's magic carpet and ride through the night. The city lights serve only as a distraction during his mystified flight; spotlights tempting him back to earth. He laughs; the stars are his alone to enjoy then capture before the sun can impede his journeys of the heavens.
X-Fest 2000
Five friends and one Taurus
"Shotgun!"
We tossed our bags in the trunk
and squished into the back.
One stop for fries
and one for a fill-up
then we hit the highway-
"Does anybody know the shortcut?"
We arrived at the lots-
an hour behind schedule.
It was decorated by cars and cans;
Scattered with people-
Dancing Drinking Singing.
We headed to the main gate
and grasped our lawn tickets
as we argued over who had to carry
the awkward blanket.
We grabbed a list
of the bands and planned
our day of running
back and forth between stages-
we did not want to miss
a sight or sound.
We were on a mission.
Our first encounter
with the "tattooed, spiked-hair dream
in red leather pants"
gave me a bright idea:
"Let's wave."
He smiled and hurried through
the "back-stage band members only" gate.
Our next encounter
and another bright idea:
"Let's get him to sign our arms."
And he scribbled his name
with a black Sharpie.
By the end of the night:
Blistered feet, worn-out legs,
sun-burned shoulders, ringing ears,
on stolen blanket
and five friends with one promise:
"We all have to marry rock stars."
