Sudden Summer Storms.

A man says in a Spanish accent that he’s closing the window beside me and I say,
“It’s going to rain?”
Disbelieving, liking the air untill yes it’s pouring.

Sitting under a coat rack in the corner, our legs intertwined.

His best friends girlfriend keeps calling me his girlfriend,
loudly and giggling.

“Not girlfriend!” I say from under the coat rack.

He’s sticking his hands in through the rips in my jeans,
we are high on MDMA.

A black capsule split in the bathroom,
he wrapped it in toilet paper.

I made a face,
asking does this actually work?

But,
I swallowed it anyway since he’s been doing drugs for like as long as I’ve been alive.

“Would you like a bump?” Asked another,
the kind of aquaintance I haven’t known how to bond with previously and I hesitated,
“Oh…,” he said, “I dunno, I’m just trying to be nice.”

So I did two off my triangle tattoo because why not and this is how to make friends.

Then I met a guy who looks like Nickelback and we did a bump together too.
Then he stalked me all night like a fucking softcore Canadian nightmare.

Standing way too close, staring, following.
As if I owe him sex for a sniff of Coke.
Haunted by his terrible haircut,
lurking in the shadows of the shadow loft.

So I crawl under the coat rack,
digging in my bag for my soggy gum.

I need three pieces to save the skin inside my cheeks.

And we watch as he lurks at the bar,
watching us be watched.

His best friends girlfriend keeps slipping us free vodka drinks.
We watch super models hullucinate and I rant about friendships.

Beside the bar,
under the coat rack,
he says, “Not girlfirend!”

His eyes coaxing and scanning my face like the first time,
when he was the stalk-y one.

“She’s just teasing us.
You do whatever you want,
I’m just happy to spend time with you.”

And I smiled the smile I feel for being so happy to hear men say that.

And the spanish man with a cigerette in his mouth and a coffee in his hand,
slides back open my cafe window.
Even though it’s still raining,
the wind has softened and the storm has passed.
We exchange smiles and I say, “Thanks.”

Advertisements

List of names for artwork drawn with words:

kissing older boys in cold cars.
concussion worthy.
blushing fire.
the pigeons are falling and the sky closely follows.

these unfinished stories.
anniversary of awkward.
season of spilling.
get me more wine.
holidays are for encounters.
our breath in all the hair.

butter, coffee, chocolate, sugar, salt.

how it tastes to be twenty. 
“she knows lost.”
wine and laundry.

the summer of lost boys.
spin gold from this.

“please wait in line and take a number.”

riding the train of circumstance.
“who is that creature?”
the way his glasses match his underwear.
teach me your ways of disconnect.

passive productivity. 
radiance derived from absence.
daily grind erodding heart.
I have been known to love you.

kissing, biting, breathing, humping.
“I heard you giggling in the morning.”

knowing exactly where my fingers go.
almost, almost everytime.
like children playing house.
this is called flirting.

film to finger, four eyes to mine.
blood wine drank.
The shape of his face.
all forbidden all the time.
why be jealous boy.
intellectuals just give better head.

feeling like a deep breath, so full.
this home swaying.

painting ceilings gold.
noticing the patterns of mornings.
antique mall mondays.
Slow and small and soft.
the sounds that adults make.

Lip biting. Neck biting. Hair biting.

first kisses only after fondles.
adolescent pile up.
the habit of anticipation.
cascading in consequence.

conversations smart like sparks but needing foundations.

soon lost in imagery.
apocalyptic romance.

“you look like a painting” she said. colorful and coloring.

I don’t know how to dress.
dreamt of silicone statues and tafeta.
dreaming of handfulls filled with skin.

Sitting on the rooftop of the pub and,

unable to think about anything,
except how easily it is that we could die.

and that,
yesterday,
or what was today,
in another world,
while I was sitting on a rooftop drinking bottled beers,
named ‘dead guy’
my dad would be turning 61 years old.

but not in this universe,
not in my world,
where I am a singular pro-noun,
sitting on rooftops.

and remembering that lately,
I’ve been so sad.
and
angry,
without a knowledge of why.

and,
without a knowing of why lately,
I have never remembered these such landmarks,
until they’ve passed me by.

happy birthday dad.

my weekend

mead in coffee mugs while watching rabbits flirt at midnight.
“you look older than twenty, take that however you like.”
character study of Barbie practiced in studio and at the pub(on dancefloor).
the best performance I’ve seen in ages, Shane Koyczan at the Artesian.
collecting souvenirs of maps and of songs missed.
boys who do the best Adele telling us we made his night.
moonlight matching skin tones kissing beneath telephone poles.
pretending bikes are horses, galloping towards coffee and eggs through sunlight.
complimentary chocolate covered chemically grown strawberries.
getting paid for my pen on paper.
seeing “My Weekend with Marilyn” loving Monroe mostly only.
costumes looking natural and wine like fountains.
friends at my door, waking me for church (brunch).
feminist theory on the highway.
dinner party conversation booming and rippling while I eat everything.