I had a stunning realization back in the warmth of my kitchen table.
I have nothing in common with a man I’ve been slow motion walking away from. huh.
there are people whose eyes can’t shine to even begin to know the depths of their darkness.
I shy away from that side of the road.
the sunny side and a strong hand to hold is where my misguided heart ventures.
I want to make mistakes. I want a nerd as a counterpart to my dork.
I want a wild ride. sleepless nights. waltzes in the half thawing Atlantic Ocean. I want to cut our ankles on salted ice and fill our lungs with sand as we laugh ourselves into our next reincarnated life.
Don’t take me so seriously. And I’ll be here. with a PayDay a pineapple coconut water and a bodega romance scented candle.
i believe in magic over despair. and I remember the day I believed in you. living and breathing here. I wish I didn’t fear the absence of alone.
the people I hold against my breast don’t wear day to day disguises. they may have been broken once or twice. but persevere we must.
and I wouldn’t take the portraits of people I saw online tonight into a dark alley. let alone my heart.
flesh and blood. we have secret needs and an eye for the opportunity to chew the thought and hope into your ear.
if I must know people. let me touch them. Mess em up. let me mess up and still hear you speak my name. let me leave my handwritten name across 206 bones.
let me have at your rib cage and leave bruises and kisses. a dotted map of my faithless loyalty.
I’ll lay down my weapons of war and this skull carnival. can’t take and I haven’t won. just want.
don’t make me ever meet the folks you know. there’s no artful grace to meeting a dead man’s gaze.
the exaggerated movements of the cultured factions make me sadly laugh on the inside.
but if I had a pocket and all the time. you would be my only one. a palm of perspiration and a heart that fights me to leave well enough. alone.
but if I’m going down I’m going down fighting for what tears at my chest. crystal and chaos.
I know I’ll bleed. and I know the limitations of the life they dangle in front of me.
my tension filled jaw line and doe eyes.
if I’m going down I’m going down fighting.
an electric chair of lethal 6,000 watt vantage point. my kind of love.
we’ll light up like baby Jesus on Christmas Eve night.
and your friends will try to maintain a look of not impressed.
and I’ll conveniently forget their names. because I only came through in all this darkness for you.
what would happen if you fell asleep to my hostile snores and skinny armed hug. I may be small but I’m yours.
and I’d carry you into the morning wake. where you open your eyes and say it looks like any other day. and I tell you no.
and I show you. where you are. with me. and I’ll hold your hand steady. your palm and pulse soothes me to a smile and a sunrise. on our side of this Brooklyn Street.
I want to believe in your eyes.
I want to ignore your surface performance artist street show. because if I know.
I know. your eyes. when you think no one is paying attention.
in the pitcher than black shadowlands of my half paid rent stabilized island bedroom demons know the weak well.
your presence terrifies them.
your presence terrifies me. but I’m refusing to budge.
I want a pocket. a small space. to hold on to while existing in these skinny jeans and high heels.
and I want the ability. to prove. we aren’t meant to fortify flesh with steel siding and speaking distance.
we’re meant to hold on to what’s left of each other. pulse and palms.
I shake. when you dare to come breathing distance near.
my greatest fear is your immense pleasure.
leave those dark eyed ladies far away from what’s considered a home.
they aren’t nearly clever enough for my liking. they only want what I have.
and for the first time, I feel like fighting.
but I’d rather you come willingly. have me now as I keep on. I keep on trying to be.
a better person and your less lonely love.
somethings won’t leave me. like this ache and the isolation with the crowd.
You are only a man. but you cure me.
with recognition. with such a tenderness appears when you think I’m not looking. I’m paying attention.
you are my best reference point of heaven on earth. a beacon. as I live and breath.
and I hope you aren’t evil. I’ve been wrong before. but I let that go.
I see you. when the candles burn down.
and your plans with friends make you devastating. and fully dressed.
the sideline view of you leaving makes me want to cry out.
but my arms worked it out. they want. to comfort you. as you fall away into the night. and me. I’ll never ask. you. I’ll just hope.
this life takes you at times.
And I won’t make you fit here. living and only half heartedly breathing. isn’t love or fair.
love is an unintentional freedom when done right.
bad luck and a bayonet occupy my bed.
only the willing and the depraved can enter the places where I hide.
and together. maybe we can look for vital signs and valuable life.
and I know you’re mine. You’re what I look for around street and avenue corners.
and on Saturdays when I pray genuflecting with St.Joseph I imagine you know all the prayer’s by heart.
for human life. for your palm and pulse.
I’d hold both signs to my breast. and be a liar with my visible tears.
happiness is a blind blessing. and a creator’s best guess. that’s how they make us. then leave us. here. and when I touch you. I believe in the innate strength of mankind.
to give up on cold comfort cure-all’s and alone.
to pick your side. and your nights. and I’ve been thinking about all this time. and all these excuses we’ve been given.
I want to squander it all. and our choices will continue to move forward in their God given direction. not used as weapons. not turned into redirected questions.
my skinny arms will keep you warm.
If I could run. I’d be distance and a calculated destination by this time next week.
but I want to know. if I’m right. if you are indeed found magic.
in a land that usually lies as a pleasant distraction. I want to know. if I can trust. unconditionally. blindly.
A person whose bones and blood feel like a beautifully indecent home.
make me ache from this life. to know we are real while we wait for change.
the Central American priest knows. the future is a shell game.
his gospel tells us to believe. in something. in anything from this life and Saturday’s following me. down concrete. and the Catholic church’s stairs. adding distance. between my emotionally ridged spine and this Greenpoint steeple.
I took sides with the priest.
it’s time to forget how to worry.
so I chose to believe in you over Jesus.
* Artwork: Baring all … Peter Doig’s At the Edge of Town (1986).