Mostly just not yours

too perfect she says
you say all the right things
there must be something wrong

as usual
silence answers first
her words dangling between us

are you crazy
is that it

I laugh
perhaps confirming
perhaps not

she shifts nervously
naked mother of two
with a secret lover

giving kisses to a man
she does not know
but wants to discover

almost from somewhere else
I hear myself saying
well I will never marry you or another

that
silence
again

up on an elbow and also nude
smiling from lips to eyes
I continue

they tell you love has a path
from teenage lust and skyburst hearts
to dotted lines and a shared house

and I tried twice
and I failed twice
and I learned

it is not for me

the silence
this time
is not as loud




she exhales and stares upward
pleased
by my short speech

my compression of romantic failures
into a singular non-answer
is a mad man dancing on the head of a pin

truth
as spectacle
never fails with new lovers

Orpheus tried to warn me

I said to her,
"Beware
of what you invoke,
it will come,"

and though
I would never be heedless
enough
to summon Ted and Sylvia...

that second time in St. Marks Bookstore,
the first time

I understood free jazz
is the sound of
lower New York City,

I purchased The Birthday Letters.

I read her passages
while walking backwards down 3rd street.

She leaned close and felt
the words ping
like stones across my ribcage.

Both, knocked silent.
Those words sweetly rung,

and I swear I heard a harp
plucked when I bought cheap sunglasses
on the corner,

and we kissed where
John died in front of Yoko
while Neptune watched,

and for whatever reason
I remained fixed

on these epic tragedies
of lover's gone to Hell,

and John she shared,
and Ted she did not,

but the second time we reconciled,
she bought me Plath's Bell Jar,

and I wondered
was she
trying to sabotage us,

to drive us into a ditch
or poison us in a corner?

Then, when she left the third time,

scorched Earth silence,
awkward threats,
and artistic titans
stumbling as background,

and our thing-
ultimately mundane.

The worst ending either
could summon.

Late night morning star ship

We took two yellow pills
shaped to resemble

Bart Simpson's head.
This funny little ecstasy...

she sang for me.
We danced.

While we twirled
around the room

my head became
clear.

I said:
will you be my girlfriend?

She kissed me: yes.
We laughed.

Our own private Prom
on a New York Sunday night.

Bar dumb

sweaty meat faced girl next to her
brother wearing a black jacket
hair photo ready facial posture

she talks loudly about
shots shots she didn't call
shots she must want a

shot now she talks of
wieners acts embarrassed

and mentions she likes double
ranch dressing
on her eggs

she takes a double shot of bourbon
leaves
strutting

jowls and all

Bird begets flame

she dances on stage
drunk and listless

face like
a diorama

is there life in there
has she fled

her friend I kissed
took to bed

she watched
silent

invited me to a CD release
party

banjo playing and she sings
like a twenties refugee

plucking
strings
at the foot of my bed

laying next to her
still smelling her friend

out through the garage door
I didn't follow

went inside
silent

took a shower

she called
mostly remained silent

only in music does she seem
present but

not when dancing
when singing

she taps a beat
she starts a song

otherwise
she is all bone

her friend comes
and collects from me

while she just
brings lyrics and guitars

talks to me about
old songs

kisses my face tenderly

I want to love her
she just

bends her head
opens her mouth

gets lost
in old songs

gone gone
gone

another bird
in the fire

Kept Kafka in the corner

In High School,
I occasionally practiced
dressing as a poet,

thoughtful sweaters
and lots of hair,

listening to
lots of bands

with dead
or death
in the name. Meaning,

black t-shirts
most days.

Camus.
Dostoevsky.
Hesse.

Reading alone.

I drank
two Dr. Peppers
and ate

two scoops
of ice cream
every day,

sat in one of two corners
at lunch.

Usually laughing
or arguing
with

my three friends,
the girlfriend
and some occasional difficult other.

Had a faded ride-to-school relationship
with my second-in-Charlotte
best friend.

Had a nightly habit
of dancing
in my room

to Jane's Addiction.
And in Junior High School,

I gave up
Dungeons & Dragons
and comics

and wrote love poems
as a means
of anonymous seduction.

I also
got glasses
and learned how to masturbate.

Not much has changed.

All sold out

whenever she says I had the strangest dream
I cringe and listen to my cereal get soggy

she waffles on without consent
waiting for the whoa to come

staring at the breakfast table flower
I pepper with a timely huh and occasional yeah

thinking about anything other than her
wacky night time brain fart

if she notices
it doesn't matter

an actress needs a stage
and craves an audience

I realize watching her make love
to an invisible camera

the bare walls must be easy to fill
like my silence is open to interpretation

no wonder she loves me
the who does not matter