Confessions of a Human Nerve Ending

Since Engagement We talk about our relationship as if we are giving congressional testimony, you always probing always questioning why I love you, why I would choose to stay with you when you obviously don't give me what I want. This last month has been harder than the 5 years before. I hear you, Under oath, I deny that I am not getting what I want because what you don't say, is that I am not giving you what you want. You want nights of long conversations about the nature of self loathing and the voices in your head about the inner self and why, always why. I often neglect the inner self as if it was a goldfish I forgot to feed over vacation. Our relationship is dying, and its not because we don't love each other, but because strangely, you don't love your self, and every time we talk about our relationship, its me not being interested in your process, you "descending to the goddess," and coming out whole on the other side. We ...

Detox Blonde, dirty locks clumped together. Left to their own device the locks would dread into a maze of tangles, split ends, and grime from the gutter, the dumpsters, the random cardboard box where, reluctantly, he'd slept. Had the cops not picked him up, awake, he'd be prowling around the entrances to grocery stores, liquor stores, bumming cigarettes and making his way down to East Colfax where he'd blow strange men from Peterson Air Force Base. He was tired, that was a given, and yet, I, a college freshmen, from the suburbs, couldn't help but stare. My mother, a detox and alcohol counselor, was asking him the series of questions, that meant intake. Out of his pockets, they found some sort of smelling salts, which my mother later explained was some sort of over-the-counter upper. Popular with homosexuals they'd take it right before orgasm. He was sick, covered in various welts, scars, bruises that didn't heal very fa...

Anthem This is for the cleaners, protectors, healers, enforcers, bullshit artists, over-your-head warriors that is the American economy For every glamorous job, we told our guidance counselor at school that we wanted, and now 5 years, 10 years, 20 years later we don’t even remember what that was; this is for you. For every person who comes home from work and has to think of ways to unwind this is for you. This is for the intake nurse at the detox center; the barista brewing espresso on bad poetry night; the janitor sweeping up shit who’s really a tenor; the teacher in the detention room breaking up a fight; This is for those who flag traffic in construction zones; the chip manufacturer wearing a “clean” suit; the maintenance man at the sewage treatment plant enjoying headphones: the constipated who don’t like fruit; This is for those working security at an...

Underwater I want to write a poem that can be understood under water, that can be listened to half submerged with just your eyes, nostrils, and mouth a part of air. Your lover holds you the poem is transmuted through the filter, the long slow sound waves through liquid no louder than your breath, which at times is the loudest sound you hear. Your skull's an echo chamber as you realize even your breath carries a tune, varies pitch and frequency. I want to write a poem that would announce the coming of a tsunami, a hurricane of thought as the words lack clarity, a series of vowel sounds. In the water,the consonants don't make sense: a "K" sounds like an "A," a "T" is nothing more than an "E." I want to write a poem that does this, yet also says, "I love you,"or "This shit is fucked, jack," or "Let me tell you about somethin'" under water, where fish can rise and say, "That is deep," and want to c...

At a University Poetry Reading In the small makeshift auditorium, she’s introduced by her own words. Some term I don’t understand, but is supposed to convey a sense of how precise, how talented, how much of a better poet she is than the thirty of us assembled in the fold-up chairs. We could learn a lot from her and this reading, from her first book, a second due to be published next year, and a third she’s working on called “The Guardians,” but will probably be entitled something else because she’s probably not going to include that poem. No one seems to like it. I’ll admit I get lost every time she starts to read, and find myself drifting to the corner of the room, and staring at the cobweb silhouette projected on the back wall. I’m wondering if maybe, just maybe, she’d be open to performing her poems a bit more. A couple of times she gets caught up in her own words, and I want to say, “Why don’t you just start over?” Or, “Maybe if you actually read tha...

Two Fold Skin The young, cocky, word-sure boy is gone now. He's been replaced two-fold times, cell by cell. All that's left of him are memories. Though you had no way of knowing, it was the first time he ever felt like he belonged, and he'd found his place, so he made sure every one else stayed in theirs. He was the one who'd say things no one else would say, who'd harass, berate, belittle, mock anyone who didn't conform to his notion of being the big cheese in the Burger King kitchen; the go-to guy for odd jobs that needed doing. Not with his size, he'd bully. How could he? Barely six feet tall and maybe one fifty. Rail thin and awkwardly uncomfortable. No. He'd bully with his words. Given his background, you would think that he would've been more sensitive to how different you were in looks only and, how much like the rest of them you were. He should've known better. Instead, he joked with you, asked how things were going for you, African-Ameri...