Monday, March 1, 2010

Choose Your Own Puddle to Drown In

In your own eyes under the dim bulbs,
swimming in music that makes you feel infallible,
it is loud and induces movements
you wouldn't do in front of your dad.
he'd really hear you,
so you wouldn't speak either.
There are no birds near the paneled condos.
I miss the recorded screams on the platform,
scaring the pigeons away.
I told you the word today was 'pablum',
but you do not register details near the vision of you.
you said, 'hmm', fixing your hair.

I hid behind my milk,
but the elemental boy still saw.
I guess we can share a conversation,
but I know I'll think you are boring,
and you'll think that I am mean.
Mean?
Why?
Because he called me 'sport'
Or said 'goose egg', holding his fingers in a circle
or asks me how simple things are 'going', like walking.
'that a girl' he said,
and I admitted it wasn't funny.
How can I converse about your desires that make me cringe?
the voice inside sounds less and less like myself
and more like a powerful stranger.
it makes the message seem natural,
like rain
on that day when the heat was unfelt-
it poured from the hot clear sky.
I ran
and each block further,
blurry hell lingered on the pavement
and I felt warm tar down my throat.

little shirtless Asians jumped off the rocks
into the waves.
caution tape lined the melting slide.
he, who would never be too optimistic,
who would never make me puke
with one wrenching word,
came that night,
and everyone saw he would never say 'sport'
or 'kid'
or 'how's the bar treating you?'
like an inherit notion he lacks all the repugnant phrases.
because his name's not "Ken" or "Mark", perhaps.
in the room, the floor was black,
you said my dress was filthy
and we laughed
and we couldn't resist the awareness of honesty
or the three hours and one night
more clear than a whole year.
It's easy to smother though.


and just the way I'm so far beneath the surface tonight,
diving into black oceans of reef and fish,
I can hear the covered sounds above the skim-
of the tv or the phone..
the papers on my desk I need to know.
I'm scuba diving when I write.
You are the same when you see yourself,
when you watch your face and back,
lost in your movements and skin-
but both pursuits are done in vain,
under the layers of coral reef
with muzzled clarity like boats-
when selfish does not actually offend,
how should I persist to roll my eyes?

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