(anti)Acid

I’m aching in the anticipation
of your lingering kisses
that I want to save the feeling of.

And I hate,
that I can’t remove you
from all the space
that’s used to keep records
of all the lines on your face.

I keep writing about you
because I’m trying to find the right
words that are the accurate summation
of the things you are.

And I hate,
how haircuts will make you stop
in the midst of euphoria and,
you allow it power in this moment
even though they,
don’t give a fuck.

That is to say,
I’m not holding it against you,
and maybe it’s a store front
that makes you stop this time,
but I wish I could just
hold that beautiful face
and remind you
that hair cuts are only a phase.

Because I like when
the rooms melting
inside of a museum that ate time
seeing you,
standing there,
in that casual sort of way you do,
when you’re lost in your own thoughts
and I think about
how the light bounces
off your tossed aside hair
and down the folds of your cotton shirt
and how,
this is where you’ve always been
and how,
this is exactly where you fit
because you were the only thing
that wasn’t melting.

I don’t know how to tell you,
how completely naked I feel
and how,
I never buy cheetah dresses
except,
when I think about you
looking at me.

I don’t know how to tell you,
that you terrify me
because I don’t feel out of place
standing next to you
but I don’t want to be
in shadows of memories of someone else.

And I’m sorry,
I’m kind of a snob
and sometimes a bitch
about people I don’t know
and how,
I don’t know what a short box is
but if you’ll allow me to,
I’d like to spend hours
watching the skin around your eyes crinkle
because,
you’re probably laughing at me
or at least you’re smiling at me
and either way
I can take another picture in my mind
of the lines I missed last time.

****

And just like that,
the room melts away.
It wasn’t a museum that ate time,
it was a black hole
that ate time and the light
that bounced from your hair
and down your cotton shirt.

And you where always there
because you’d rather chase ghosts
that reside in the past
then see exactly what stood before you.

That is to say,
I hold this completely against you
because you’re not the first boy
to lie to me or to lead me on,
you are the first to be have been so cruel.

And I once thought you where beautiful
but now I can see,
you just had nice clothes.

And I think about how
I told you my truths
and how,
you used that vulnerability
and how,
you have the audacity
to say we can hang out and,
be copacetic because –
you’re sorry
and how,
you feel bad.
and how,
then you could feel better
if we pretended nothing happened
and were copacetic
because –
you like hanging out with me.

starting 30

I live in dichotomies
and reflect on the mile stone
of reaching another decade
around the sun.

I feel old
and then I don’t
feel old enough.
I listen to jazz
like a good intellectual
and say things like
Miles is so existential
and I want
to punch myself
in the face
when those words vomit
from my mouth.

I think about
the first 10 years of adulthood
and how I don’t remember
the first half
because maybe nothing happened
but rather, I was dead.

And the last half
has been a zombie
trying to be human again
melting the ice
that had gripped
a tired heart.
A heart thats still tired
but still beating.

I’m still chasing pipe dreams
and I hit that pipe every day
because while everyone else
was alive at 22,
I was drowning
in seas of gray,
further and further
until the bedrock
of the sea welcomed me
to my new home
where I stayed
shackled in muck
and blinded by darkness.

Only now,
did I find the surface
and gasped for air
and
only now,
do I feel like I’m actually
in control of myself.

Only now,
have I accepted
the role of ruler
of my life.
and I think about
how I’m not where
I considered I would be
at 3 decades deep
into this journey
through space,
but I think it’s okay
because even though
like Andre says,
everyone around me playin marriage
or paying child support
or buying houses
I can’t cope –

My tinder profile
is a sea of mirror selfies
and camo
with dead carcasses
and advertisements of hard working, homeowners
who’s only hobby is sports,
not playing, just watching
and its like –
is this really enough for people?

And if it is enough,
why isn’t it enough for me?
because I’m constantly hounded
with questions likes
Whats wrong with you?
When are you are going to get married?
When are you going to have a baby?
like there’s nothing better to do.

Sometimes I feel like
I’m being childish though,
with my pipe in hand
and day dreams of adventures
of a life
that doesn’t included houses, camo
or apple pie –
Because I’m chasing something bigger,
and sometimes I think
it’s a waste of time
and, perhaps I should acquiesce
to the kool aid before me.
Give into my consumeristic tendencies
and buy a big box
to put my camo shit in
and close the blinds
and the rest of the world away from me.
But I’m not ready
to nail myself
inside a coffin just yet.

And it feels like
everyone else wants me
inside these boxes
so they don’t have to worry,
and so they can tell their friends
she’s OK because,
she’s has the correct mile stones
accomplished in order
while looking at me to say
well there’s still time…

I hear people say
you don’t act 30
and I don’t know
what that even means
because what does it mean
to act 30 when I don’t even feel it?
like should I be honored or offended?
but mostly I don’t give a fuck
and maybe that’s what being 30 is.

signs

I think a lot
about this sign,
I saw in a coffee shop.

And I think
about that coffee shop
and how everyone inside
looked like a social media influencer
but seemed to lack
anything genuine

and I know,
I’m being judgmental
about people I don’t know
and a place I went to once
but even inside the shop
that played my beloved jazz
and had dark wood
paneled walls
and checked all the boxes
of what I like
in a coffee shop
it felt like a facade.
like shopping at Urban Outfitters.

The sign on the door
was a list
of all the different ways
you can be human.
the sign said,
all humans are welcome,
including humans with disabilities.

But, as soon as you came in,
there were 5 steps
one has to climb
in order to get to the counter
and buy a coffee.
So even though,
the sign said everyone’s welcome,
nothing was actually done
to ensure everyone is able.

So you can be welcome,
but you may not be able
to get in
based on your physical abilities.

and I think about
how thats how our world works
we say but never do.
we create “movements” online
but lack systematic change
for movements to matter.

And then when you question it all,
someone with fake glasses
points to the sign
and says everyone’s welcome,
and pretends
the stairs
can be willed away
with positive vibes.

dating

I like dating
because I like pretending
I’m the person
I wish
I was.

I like to see
how long I can
keep the facade
before
I crack
under my
self imposed perfection.

I like playing
a role
of the charming
curvaceous
redhead
with electric eyes
and musical laughs.

I like to think
my social anxiety
doesn’t exists
because with good company
and enough alcohol
anything is possible.

I like dating
because
then it makes me feel
normal.
because,
you can’t be
single
and 30.

But as long as you have
a name of someone
and a story about them
you can pretend
you’re dating
So no one thinks
there’s anything
wrong
with you –
even if
you’re just
fucking.

a hawk by the road

I saw a hawk today.
At first
I thought it was an owl.
because I never see owls
and I’m low key obsessed
for the day my owl sighting occurs.

When I got closer though,
it was obvisouly a hawk.
I wondered
How did I know
what a hawk was.
As in,
when did I learn
to identify
a hawk.

And then,
I was thinking about
My granparents
and I remembered
they had a hawk
for a long time.

It had been injured
and they cared for it
until it could do hawk things
and I realized
my grandparents,
are a defining influence
in who I am
as a person.

My grandma’s always been an artist,
my grandad a photographer
and musician
sharing pictures of
foreign tropical places
and the birds
and the flowers
that live there.

Their house,
is a Disney forest,
of all the wildlife
that has called it home
and a constant,
resident Doberman,
who was,
in my lifetime –
Brandy,
then Raven
then Jackson
then…
A new puppy
name: TBD.

They taught me
how to see beauty
and how
to express it
even when it’s ugly.

I saw a hawk today
and thought about
my grandparents.

electricity

I have a long list of lovers
I consider in the hindsight
of nostalgia.

I think about the tiny moments
that are shared between souls
when it feels like
the rest of the world fades away.

I am the star
I my personal collection
of romantic scenes.

Drunken bare feet dancing
in spare rooms of rental houses
with only Sinatra on vinyl filling the room.

Maybe it was on the shore of Lake Michigan
under the peeping eye of a full moon
and waves crashing at our feet.

How about when it was singing a duet
in a trashy dive bar outside of town
in absolute, perfect harmony.

What if its how the Beatles
always remind me of his stupid fedora
and how he was always a performer?

Perhaps it was the first one
and lazy rivers on summer days
with first loves’ first kiss.

I can list every way
they were all wrong for me
but nostalgia doesn’t work that way.

I replay the reels
of my comedic tragedy
that has been my love life, thus far.

And I wonder if it’s possible
for that sort of thing
to always be present.

Or if all relationships eventually stagnate
and fall victim to the drone
of everyday life.

And if thats the case,
I prefer the electric moments,
however fleeting.

auspicious winters

The hour between 4 and 5
in January
in Michigan
is my favorite moment
of everyday.

If the suns out anyway,
because if we’re blessed
with a clear sky in winter,
at 4 o clock
gold kisses the naked trees
and radiates from buildings
in contrast
to elongated shadows
drifting lazily across the ground.

I get caught up
in the distraction
of lifes necessities
and I forget
what I’m supposed to be doing.

And then it’s 4 again –
For a moment
those auspiciously stubborn
naked trees cling to their gold
and allow for time
to stand still
so light can dance
a little while longer
anticipating the length
of summer
and the warmth light shares
when it rules time.

coffee shops

Coffee shops
act as my sanctuary these days
because I’m hopelessly addicted
to the smell
of the coffee shop.

I like when coffee
burns down my throat
like I’m drinking
molten lava.

It’s sort of how whiskey feels
when you drink that
on summer days
by a river
with the smell
of lake water
perfuming your hair.

I like when coffee shops
only play jazz on the radio.
It perfectly encapsulates
the hustle and bustle
of making coffee
but it’s also pretty chill
because you always have
a few minutes
for coffee.

I could live in a coffee shop
but not like a Starbucks
but like the grimy shop
that was in my college town,
before gentrification took over
and the building became whitewashed.

It was the perfect place,
with turquoise walls covered
in art that was found
or from local artists
selling their labors.

The concrete floor
was carpeted with
rugs that looked like Persians
but were probably not.

Sometimes they’d play jazz
but sometimes it was punk rock
or classic rock
or something kind of weird
and
you just wear headphones
on those days.

It sits on the corner
of a busy street
and you can sit and watch
the cars go by
and look at this church
across the street,
that makes even churches in Europe,
a tiny bit jealous
because it’s a stunning display
of Renaissance architecture style.

Once I snuck into the church
because I Just wanted
to see the inside.

It was amazing inside,
and a guy sang to me
some hymnal I wasn’t familiar with
and to this day,
I think that’s the only time
that sort of thing has happened.

I was trying to see the organ upstairs,
but the singing man said I wasn’t allowed.
I knew that already,
but rules are meant
to be broken sometimes,
because you have to live a little.

But it’s easy to claim ignorance
in situations like that –
Some people think
rules are more important
then they really are.

Even today,
sitting in Starbucks,
inside a strip mall
I can still think
of sitting in that cafe
where I discovered
that I too,
am pretentious about coffee,
looking at that beautiful church
an its orange brick.

The coffee shop
isn’t like that anymore.
they cleaned it up
painted the walls white
and made it another
place with the same
minimalist style,
which I like
but when everyone does it
it lacks personality
and maybe thats
what I really hate
about modern life.

synchronicity

A stillness settles around me
in the wake of the heartache
that follows the end
of a temporary affair.

It isn’t the end of days,
but I don’t know
if its better when
you know everything you did wrong.

Then again, I suppose
I might be addicted
to the thrill
of self sabotage
or maybe simply
standing in the way.

Maybe it’s the distraction
I’m grieving or maybe,
it’s the fleeting connection
that has been broken.

Don’t you feel like
taking off your skin,
wash it, put it back on
because maybe now,
it’ll fit better?

Isn’t it annoying,
discovering things about yourself
that sort of suck?

The thrill is gone
or perhaps it’s too constant
and has lost its appeal…

when the timings right
I’ll fall in love too easily,
but accept the synchronicity
of right now.

This is where
I’m supposed to be.

van gogh

My grandma’s house
was in the middle
of nowhere.

She lived
on the same plot of land
that her parent’s
had lived on.

With my grandpa,
they built their
own house next door.

They were
surrounded by corn
and her parents.

I always loved her house.
She had one of those rooms,
most grandma’s have,
the sort of room
you’re never really allowed
to be in,
except on Christmas.

That was were the nice
furniture was,
and of course
it was white.

Super practical.

Her house was always
nice.
It didn’t smell,
like
old people lived there.
She has style
sort of timeless,
but still sort of grandma-ish…

but the ceiling arched up
at every corner
and I thought that was
the coolest thing
ever.

A painting hung,
on the opposite wall
of this
giant window
you could see all
the corn from
and a big
wheeping
widow.

It was a painting
of flowers in a pot
and it sort of always
looked old.

Once I read about
Van Gogh
and had a surface level
understanding of
the sunflower painting,
I was convinced
my grandma
was in possession
of a real Van Gogh.

No one believed me.
I always thought
it was because,
they didn’t care about art.
or, maybe they didn’t know
who Van Gogh was
but probably
because I was 8.

She did not,
in fact
have a Van Gogh painting.
They weren’t even sunflowers
in the painting
that hung across
from the giant window
and the whipping willow
that peeped inside.

Those are my thoughts for today. Until tomorrow, friends.