Why do Bad Things Happen to Marginally Good People

coming to terms with temporary
is an exercise in useless.
the glass can be half full or empty
but I’m smiling either way.

composure is, so often, mistaken
with ease. and some might be so foolish
enough to think my grin
is anything but a well dressed
insanity.

Is It Really Ghosting If I Never Answer Your Texts Anyway

Hello. I’m sorry it’s been such a while. Are you eating well? Did you get that thing you really wanted? How’s your job? Have you called your mother lately?

I know I have a habit of isolation and that I don’t reach out as much as I should, and I respect you far too much to make up some sorry excuse that’s more of a social reflex than sincerity. Like saying I-thought-I-hit-send-on-your-last-message or that “Work’s been crazy.”

But lately I’ve had a nagging conscience telling I might be neglecting my little corner of the internet, and while I absolutely hate any feeling of obligation, I’ve grown enough to not be so selfish and know I do at the very least owe you an explanation.

Projects much larger than just myself (and anything I have ever accomplished) are taking shape, in mediums I’ve never been in, with other artist I’ve never worked with.  It’s all very exciting and fulfilling, but time consuming and exhaustive.  I haven’t the time to grow those seeds and remain active, so until they’re complete this website will be under a kind of radio silence.

I hope and promise to share more once I’m able to, and I appreciate those of you who bother frequenting, haunting, or lurking (whats the difference really) this little haven of fiction and poetry I’ve created. I’m thankful for your continued support.

On an unrelated note, e-mail responses will also be put on an indefinite hold. I wish I could respond and I am truly sorry,  it’s just that works been so crazy.

Always,

N.

 

If Loving You Is Wrong I Don’t Want To Swipe Right

This City Is Alive. Can’t You Feel That Pulse Vibrating On Your Sole? I’m not sure if you mean sole or soul, but either way I’m nodding along, feeling my way down that soft hill just where your spine dips and your back ends, and I can’t begin to imagine what else a hand is for. That’s when I get your back hand.

Don’t Be An Ass, Just Stop, Listen. And we pause for a moment to feel the wind and vague aroma of pretzels whisper and whisk us away to the promised land. You hear a voice in an empty street, I feel the murmur of midtown traffic. What’s with yours? The Fuck’s With Yours? We laugh it off, but in retrospect, that difference turns out to be so tragic.

It’s barely sundown but we’re near halfway done with this town. Flannigans, your favorite place, Oh My God You Remembered! Open balcony and buffalo wings so good They Must Have Got Me Pregnant. But I’m just gunning for sympathies. A last stake and a blunt mood while you blunt moods, swinging this weeks crush down my face like another God Damn meme. Oh, I bet he’s a fucking prince. Works where? Oh, you don’t say? Shut up and order me a drink, I can do without the Me-and-Him while I’m mapping out your decolletage. I’ve got a heavy heart with heavier thoughts, but if you want to brag, I’ll allow it. Because the way you say my name still makes me useless.

Go on then, I said. He sounds so great, please show me.

And you go reaching for your phone, flick, swipe, flick, turn page: Facebook gallery of couple selfies so synonymous with our generation. Too close for comfort in those comforts, vacation photos where you hide your feet in the sand because I know you’re too self conscious. He’s grinning, so damn winning, Joe-Yale jaw and an All-American gleam as he’s leaning on his side to your open arms and open-ended’s. And anybody else would say in dears, Awe, Well Now, They Must Be So Happy.

And yet, just like that, here we are. And yet, just like that, there we were: mourning in the morning, even by the evening, smoked in the dusk, and I’m the dew to meet the sunrise. Smell me, taste me, feel me, breathe me, breathe me. Inhale. Inhale. Tensely, deliberately, you ask for your iPhone charger while I am none the wiser and glimmering of you.

We had the whole of a sleepless town to dance around and be depraved in. The music calling, your hips responding, three missed calls on your neck where my lips felt they had a part in. (Near)missed connections in the way you said my name like a taxi cab confession, soft and blatant but underhanded, so our driver had to ask Can’t-You-Wait-Until-I-Get-You-There? And we laughed about it later, while you were wearing my shirt and I played footsie under breakfast, because fuck, do I wake up ready. Because last night is so distant and never enough, and I have these damn instincts that won’t let me let up.

But I’d be remiss to not reminisce in the way you smiled when we spent the day and I locked the door. To keep everybody out, or maybe forcing us in.

The Idiot (aka Homer’s Beer Run)

Heaven is hell-bent, a misshapen sanctuary
where men make sinners out of love, sibyls from
devils and saints out of the fairer sex. The
less clever pray for deliverance in a cup,
Gods nectar; bitter-sweet ambrosia by the barrel;
His holy bottled excellence, sixteen fluid ounces,
light, stout, pale or pilsner, for nightly immortality.

Dear deacon of the deli, bringer of
my bread and sacrilege. Clandestine
clerk who offers passage to His hazy
river Styx, in brown paper bags and
long side glances that confess
disbelief a 2AM pilgrimage can wait
for the sacrament of home.

Two coins short, and Charon grins,
no ferry waits when his toll goes unpaid.

Forgive me Ahmed, for I am dimmed.
Sweet Gods of Hell and mercy, grant me light,
and credit, that I may learn peace and pass
this dark and grim abyss, to far and pleasant lands
where one dreams and is awake.

Charon nods, Pity, he says, Go-Then,
Take-It, Go-And-Bid-Farewell. But
Heaven has no room for cleverness;
this world is a loan to be repaid,
and I will you see you once again,
with a stone at your back
and Hell at your heels.

Our hero sobers on, a long voyage home safe,
with bags of ambrosia, two pockets full of coins,
and the hidden smile of Sisyphus son.

Kamikaze Pilots Don’t Wear Helmets

Bed covers don’t cover much-
only cold feet and secrets two lovers share.
particulars wondered out of window sills,
hiding in plain sight from a stranger or husbands eye.
no heat or warmth this dire night,
only bodies and throw pillows
tainted in the thin evidence of s[k]in.
wrinkled, like my grandmother’s hands
before she died and showed me how to read a tarot.

come nightstand, by the record player
a deck of red cards already shuffled,
random, pristine, perfect and predestined.
queen of diamonds across the jack of spades
and I lost the king of hearts a long time ago.
the egg timers clicking, counting down,
a wet shade of grey across our shared living.
room quietly loud, like the gasp before a scream,
and the alarm clock ring sounds like a sigh.

and sunrise, and yawns, and brushed teeth and breakfast
and the roulette wheel of responsibility and love
spins again. my heart winces at the thought,
wondering, unable to determine where I stand,
how I fall. the days keep coming, back to back,
relentless. two people can’t keep a secret and
our winning streaks come to an end.

another hand dealt, we place sour bets.
diamonds over spades, tainted, quiet,
forced to look the other way-

aces high, aces high.

You Look Like I Need Another Drink

A kiss couldn’t contain me, I can’t be made still when my world is always rotating. Spinning on a spindle far as the bar can see, high as the stars orbiting Neptune when the sun sets for the first time in a thousand years on Venus. Can’t call tonight quits so I’m proof-reading draft text messages I meant to send, trying to draw that fine line of flirting while running perfect circles around the moon.

“You don’t like Skylers mom.”

“am I that obvious?”

“No, but I can tell”

“what gave me away?”

He has honest eyes- two black marbles and red strings marinating in a pool of milk; soft and terrifying. Sometimes when he smiles his gaze will wince and flash the hot secret of what he really thinks; open windows that reveal a cold and sensitive man behind the blinds of polite social interactions. A shore forehead full of forethought, with a strange canoo shaped scar bobbing down the river of his beard. He had a quality I couldn’t place but softly identified, a secret in his faded Caesar I had to unearth.

“im really good at reading people”

“Like a mystic? Forget Skylers mom, tell me the future, specifically in terms of lotto numbers.”

“venus is in mars and he’s not too crazy about pegging. your lucky number is 69”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“no but i do kiss yours”

“I’ve always wanted a step-momdad.”

You cant stop the earth from shaking, no matter how hard you hold on and tug. Your best bet is to grab a friend and ride the tremors, hope he isn’t going to make the night any more than the natural disaster I was meant to be. A social inventory insist that I am something of a catch 22- a little jaded, maybe, but more like blood diamonds than single mothers at 45. Twenty something reprobate, “waist hip proportionate” (whatever the fuck that means,) that doesn’t mind a night full of fancy clothes and jazz bars or McFlurrys in a beat up Ford Escape around midnight. I’m down to clown or play sophisticated, depending on where my mood is. So long as I don’t have to justify why I think everyone should recycle and wearing denim jeans with dress shoes looks ridiculous.

“I can’t think of what to say so I’m going with a very hopeful and loaded ‘wyd’.”
“laundry, little brother baby sitting”

I should be home with a book or jaw so cut it leaves dimples along my waist and pillows. Where I lay my head is home, and lately I like resting to the thought of him. I wonder what kind of lover he would be, in the romantic sense. Classical maybe, holding open doors and keeping between myself and traffic. Like I were a pet or something that needs protection. Or is he rather renaissance, regarding me with an equality and respect of a fellow human being. Dutch dinners and gender neutral nuances, bland sweet talk that means well but borders on boring, lacking that playful sentimentality of oh-baby-please.

“hey.”

“Hi”

“i miss you.”

“I know”

But that’s all I ever think about. Even in my raunchiest I can never get to the actual sex part. My fantasies are underwhelming as the movies are- I only care about everything leading up to the moment before my mind fades to black and I’m suddenly out of breath or staring at the ceiling from my pillow.

“saturday, you and me and a dinner. you can talk about your baby brother and that stupid movie with kate blanket that you like. ill wear the shirt you said doesn’t make me look so ugly and you’ll make my face say something my mouth wasn’t ready to. will be fun, or not, and awkward. but whatever it is, it be something better than what we are.”

Read on 7/1/2019

You And Me And The Devil Makes Three (aka I Want To Hold You In Contempt)

Her kiss is a relapse, misfortune,
worsening of my worst impulses;
an awful influence full of irresistible.
Her words are drugs and drugs are a clutch,
til highs do us part and lows make us
whole again. Bags of heavy yesterdays
weigh down, and I don’t know what to do with myself.

Taken hands, hushed words, rushed stalls-
what a waste to not grab waist and do
a four letter word (love). Plans to keep
and make her a home, 5PM lockdown, rush hour,
crowded public when doubts double and my mouth
taste like cinders. Slipping  into a thought of her
like a favorite pair of jeans.

Snug, familiar, and warm; she fits well. Run my thumb along the holes
and coffee stains, wonder what memory or feeling
the moment will settle as, when the honeys and the moons
fade. If my name will be a sigh, wistful as a cloud,
or vague as rain humming to what the radio plays.
A feeling haunting me in the distance, a reminder
that you are in tangles and I am tangelsome.

Still I pray for relapse and disaster,
addiction and her sex to once again step into me,
far from fog and drizzled Sundays, so I might tug
on her thoughts like a shoelace.

I am undone again.