A comfortable glass of solitude
What I long for now is a rainy night,
looking out at it through a pane of glass
in some pokey, wooden bar;
a warm, apple cider with cinnamon,
the occasional jingle and crack of the door,
voices huddled,
jolts of laughters from down the bar
or in the booths,
alone, but not lonely,
so accompanied by the orange light,
unburdened of time or purpose,
I am here to observe, and to be observed,
toying with a line or two,
hanging out with my muse,
cheers-ing to the heavy drops
collecting on the cross-hatch,
working through the stages, methodically –
hitting grief only briefly,
hitting self-pity only once,
and bouncing back but armed with this:
I love who I am, and I’m doing so well,
and it’s ok that my clothes are damp,
that my drink’s a little cooler,
that my moment’s not shared,
because nothing stays,
not gold nor grey.
Drink up
Perhaps a new tradition;
arriving late, restaurant closed,
I chose instead to tread
the halls, and find my way to stalls
where shorts (not talls) call me to come hither;
not shots, but drops swirled round a snifter.
Lift the spirits, gins, and bitters.
Quick! Before the final call.
Drink up. Leave tip. Goodnight to all.
Highlight Reel
I was new in town,
riding BART in the city
when, like in the movies, I caught your eye,
and instantly worried that the movies were lies,
and that I was just being weird.
So, already weird, I went all out.
We left at the same station;
you took the stairs, I took the escalator.
Unable to take my eyes off you as I passed,
I turned,
effectively moonwalking into the lead,
in our race to Market Street.
“I’m winning.” I said, being weird like that.
You took off your headphones, and smiled at me.
You could see my newness,
fresh off the boat,
and there was a part of you that lit up,
your kind, caring, instant-friend-making spirit
that took it upon itself to look out for me,
a person you’d not yet even met,
offering to show me round a bit,
only not today,
as you were off to meet your parents at the Ferry Building.
I joked that I should come along.
“Not this time.”
But there wasn’t a part of me that didn’t yearn
when you left.
Number in hand, I fretted like a teenager
over when was too soon to text;
I texted way too soon.
And later, when introducing you to friends and colleagues at Kell’s,
you arrived from work with an enormous backpack,
set it down,
and proceeded to tell people how we’d met on the train,
just like in the movies.
You couldn’t have been a better host.
We met for dinner at el Techo in the Mission –
my first experience of this eclectic district,
like Camden Town, San Francisco style –
where we took an elevator up to the roof to be seated,
a plastic canopy to keep the bay winds off our food
and skin,
but I do not remember being chilly or warm,
my memory instead is of the expansive view,
though I cannot even tell you what I saw, what part of the city,
I only remember the feelings now;
it felt like luck,
wonder,
and gratitude, all at once.
It felt like that every time I met you since;
at the Tiki bar, at the BART near my place,
or when I kept stumbling upon a new part of you,
like when you told me you were an architect,
and pointed out your favorite buildings and features,
like that one near the Academy of Sciences,
an angular shape nestled into its environment –
was that the time you took me to NightLife?
We drank cocktails as we explored the museum
like giddy kids figuring out how to date –
or the first time I heard you sing,
and I swear down you carry a ghost in you,
beautiful and laden with soul,
playing out through you every time you sing,
a cool, blue, careful melody
that originates so deep in your heart;
we all sit up and listen to hear its tales,
its truth,
its lessons of youth.
It became such a habit.
You all did.
I’d met your housemates down on Lily Street,
not ten minutes walk from Civic Center BART,
and I rode out from work as many night as you’d have me,
passing up my Lake Merritt stop
to venture further,
to dare for more from the day beyond 5.30,
and we’d hang out, cook food,
I’d marvel at Adrian’s innovations –
the self-installed rain shower, the smart lightbulbs, the Nest,
the door-locking device of his own design,
and shouting at the Alexa –
and the chronology quite betrays me,
but there was a night, just you and I,
where you coaxed me into a small bar with a pool table.
We did our best to stick to the game.
No. We did our worst.
Squeezing by each other to get in place for the shot,
hands glancing as we exchanged the cue,
and it was the first time you kissed me,
like the choreography demanded,
directed by you.
I was an extra with a leading role.
I’d found my American dream,
just like in the movies.
But it went awry.
I was moving too fast,
texting too much,
opting for a life of gentrification
instead of enjoying the character of my new city.
And I’d mentioned wanting kids one day,
and you’d said you did not,
that the world was too fucked to subject them to,
and maybe you were right
given what happened in eight months’ time,
but it cut a chord way down in me,
and I’m trying to remember if that’s what broke,
and I’m trying to think if that’s legitimate,
because that is so important,
and I was falling so fast.
I wanted it all too soon,
and I pushed you away for my eagerness.
You know I only bought those tickets because of you.
Months in the future, I turned up,
single, attending with friends,
Cage The Elephant taking the stage,
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.
“You look good in a white t shirt.”
I never found you in the crowd.
And that’s when I knew
I was no longer in a movie.
—
It’s 5am as I finish this,
having spent all night reliving the moments,
I could not lay there at 4 just holding on to memories,
so I wrote them down,
not necessarily for you to see,
but we only live once,
and I wonder if you’d be happy or sad to know
how much it all means to me
that our paths crossed,
and that you are the only love I ever found in the wild,
not on a dating app,
not through an institution like school or work,
but out of the millions of people in a brand-new city,
we said hello,
and I find it so hard to say goodbye,
at least without you understanding how unique you are,
and how much I wish I’d taken it slow.
Shake
Am I hindered by the clasp
that wraps electric round my wrist,
or by the sleek and silent tile
that sneaks its way into my fist?
And suddenly, there’s so much noise,
like burying my face in coke,
and even as I turn away,
the high remains, my eyes awoke
and bright in dark. I swear I spoke
a prayer into that dizzy night
to let me sleep, and hold her tight,
without the fear and anxious din,
without it pawing for my PIN,
without the midnight altercations,
without the heat manifestations
taking form beside my bed;
I leap and try to knock it dead,
and cry out something vile, and see
there’s nothing facing back at me,
just beads of sweat to burn my eyes,
and force me back to bed half-blind,
attempting once again to shake
my perma-state of half-awake.
It was worth a shot
It’s worse because it’s summer,
bare legs at every turn,
pale, bronzed, or chocolate skin,
flaunting the fruits of their labor,
begging you to adore the deft shadow
where lean muscles define the line of sight,
and draw your eyes ever deeper –
not wanting to be a creep, you turn,
and look to your woman,
the one you used to call your lover.
She’s busy,
focused, then unfocused, and agitated,
you try to console her,
you try to care for her,
but you’re fighting the rising feeling in your chest,
building like an inappropriate laugh,
bursting with it.
Across the street, across the room,
climbing in and out of cars,
their nakedness mocks you.
You,
a handsome man with grand ideas,
with steady pay, with artful hands,
so you force yourself to remember when you were single,
and how little you were able to capitalize then either.
But boy, it was fun to try.
I tried to take it slow
Being careful not to touch too much,
it neatly lies in line and order.
Ready as I’ll ever be.
Perhaps you’ll note the efforts made.
I wonder if you’ll see me first,
if you’ll be in that army-green jacket,
boots and shorts…
and instantly I’m lost to thoughts
of smooth legs and pressing hips,
of kisses on your smiling lips,
that I may well be the luckiest guy,
and intend the chance to not be wasted,
turning on the charm and chatter,
begging you to look at me
in that way
so I know it’s okay to draw my hand,
course it through the narrows,
and wrap about your waist.
Begin to taste the sharp inhales,
anticipating a clumsy rush
and mindful pause,
to take it in.
To us, we move as if in water,
slowly pushing through the deep,
but to all others it must look like fire,
twisting into knotted towers,
sparking at the edges,
burning at both ends.
Know thyself
I worry about the journal,
of what it may unearth in me,
of what it may encourage,
feeding into self-delusion
or fantasy;
an insidious creep of personality
that might as well go fuck itself
for all its lack of insight.
Though insight it might, a different plight
that I can’t (nor shall not) bear;
it gobbles up my words and whims,
and shits out all my care.
Congratulations. You know yourself.
And what a crock of fucking wealth.
Begun
I’m on the cusp of freedom,
but it’s one left-turn from losing faith,
falling hard for hopelessness,
like young, obsessive love,
wasting in the waters,
wallowing while grinning,
a drunk slur melting my expression,
revelling in ruminance.
This pity too is one deep breath
from the imminent escape,
the blatant understanding that there’s no such thing as fate,
unless we take the concept to be nothing in itself,
the story you have written, given to your younger self,
impossibly told back to you, before you had begun,
and begin you must, it waits for none, it has begun,
it has begun.
Mr Relax
Mr Relax
enters;
brim, trim, slim, a grin
departs
as if a whisper flown
and sewn into our skins.
It wins us over, and over,
and over,
so.
this. bliss
trickles;
hiss and kiss the coals,
souls turn to him before eyes –
wide at the centre,
tied to let enter
and paddle in their pupils.
Myself? I can’t stand the man,
preferring to hold too tightly to little,
than letting the lot wash over,
wash through,
wash me clear and clean of identity
that long I’ve left to grow like mold
in my cupped hands, in my clasped hands,
both dark and damp environments for fear to grow,
and convince you that it’s medicine;
too sick to even understand the prison that it puts you in…
I’m listening. I’m giving in.
I feel my smile-lines deepening.
I know that I’d be happier if only I weren’t grimacing,
and trying so damn very hard
to carve each pebble on the path.
Tenure
Let me tell you who I am,
and what I do –
if they’re distinct? –
then you can make up your own mind
if you’re living true;
being me, in you.
***
An early bird, I feed the dogs,
and head on down to an empty gym,
enjoying the absurdity of exercise at dawn,
finishing my workout before you’ve even woken up.
A pot of coffee on the go, I catch up on the news,
rifling through my email, making notes so not to lose
the feel for how the day will play, and pander to my goals,
so by the time I enter in, I’m prepped for all the roles.
It’s after five, but not yet six, I wrap up to head home;
I use the walk to file and form the things I’ve come to know.
We walk the dogs, we cook up food, we catch up on our days,
we wonder about the future, or we roll about in play,
or find ourselves absorbed in tasks, and all can be okay;
variety forms edges to our long-extended stay
upon, within, beside this earth – for which we shall adventure,
and document through artful means
that long outlive our tenure,
so that we may be remembered by the art we leave behind;
impressions of the time we took to organize the mind.
What we owe
Given all the time we’ve had,
and were it now that needs and musts
come to the fore, and bear their wares –
a fierce demand that forms implied,
in lieu of calling it by name,
or of looking it in the eye –
then we in turn must inside-out
and empty all our carriers of coins;
the tax is high for what we owe.
The only thing we learnt to grow.
A better day
It might have been a better day
had all the stars and paths aligned,
but think of all the whats and ways
we’d miss if all were as designed.
Poffertjes and Chocomel
Remember how we’d cycle down
and round about the bend?
Through avenues of trees, we’d weave,
and huff as we ascend
the path through dunes, the sea in view –
a promise at its end;
where poffertjes and chocomel will welcome us as friends.