i told her it was my first real date
and could tell she was shocked
by the look on her face
and how she immediately glanced
down at her phone.

checking the time, maybe?
counting down the minutes?
i wonder if it's over before it started
when she changes the subject.
i'm nice -- i laugh, i smile, i be myself.

she says she has my number
from the dating site and will call me.
something in her voice tips me off,
and i know i'll never see her again
except in painful memories.

i try not to be pathetic, pitiable,
and instead to keep my chin up
and say tomorrow's another day.
if only i haven't been saying that
for the past 10 some-odd years.

every time

probably the hardest part of our breakup
was the fact that we lived in a small town.
it wasn't the gossip -- although there was plenty of gossip.
no, it was everywhere we'd gone together,
and the fact that every time i went some place
i was reminded in some way of you.

every time i went to the diner,
by myself, with family, or friends,
i'd glance over at our booth in the corner,
recall joking how you no-so-delicately
smothered everything in ketchup
and remember the taste of your mouth afterward.

every time i'd go to see a movie at the drive-in
all i could think of was the smell of your car,
mixed with gasoline, popcorn, and smuggled beer.
i'd get so cold sitting there in the car,
and then remember the blanket
we used to huddle under to stay warm.

our old high school is probably the worst.
it's what i drive past every day on my way to work,
and is a bitter reminder of happier days.
i constantly ask myself what i did wrong,
only to remember those words you said:
"it's not you, it's me."

was it, really?

it's always ridiculous looking back
at the heart-breakers, the what-ifs,
the could-have-beens and happily-ever-afters.

you almost laugh at the silly things
like first and last name combinations
or what you'd name your children.

at the time you're so engrossed
and often drowning in a sea
of potential love and harmony.

yet when you finally surface
it isn't despair -- but relief --
that the future is still yours.

even now

even now, i enjoy the smile
that has changed so much,
yet somehow looks the same
as the day you were born.

i still can't resist you,
even though i try.
and gone are the days
when tickling actually worked.

seeing you hurt, inside or out,
is in some ways more painful
than feeling pain myself,
or having my own heart broken.

even now, as a grown woman,
with your head in my lap
and tears on your cheeks,
i love being your father.

stomach and chest tighten
deep breathing to no avail
nerves and fanciful what-ifs
swimming around in my mind

i will them to pass, to go away
and leave me at peace again,
but anything worth having
often comes at a price.

it won't go away, none of it.
the feeling under my solar plexus,
the thoughts that belong in dreams,
the future i'll never have.

half covered in blankets
with one foot on the floor
i watch the fan wobble and whir
and the bare light bulb flicker,
turning a coffee table of empty beer bottles
into a flashing display of color.
i rub the handgun across my forehead
like i've done so many times before,
contemplating a decision
i know i'll never make.

it's nights like these
i remember all the
fucked up things about
my life and who i am,
why i'm still alone
and entirely unfulfilled
with the course of
where i'm going and
where i've been.
completely unsatisfied
with my life thus far
and wondering if
it's possible to erase
who i am and start
as someone better,
start as someone i
might even love.

italy

we went to italy together,
both in our 20s,
wanting to see more of the world.

our hotel overlooked
the venetian canals
packed with tourists.

at sunset we'd stroll
through golden streets
bustling with activity.

we made love,
mostly in the afternoon,
when the heat made us lazy.

we enjoyed the art,
paintings, buildings, food,
mostly in silence.

it was in those moments
we shared something great
that we can never get back.

pieces

as a young man he yearned for love
but was never blessed by its embrace.
not knowing why it eluded him so,
he slowly closed his heart to the world.

harbored behind stone walls
that served as a layer of thick armor,
he gradually forgot his loneliness
and the longing for the forbidden.

years and years passed by,
with never so much as a dent
in the impenetrable fortress
he built around his soul.

imagine a man who never thirsted
go centuries without so much as a sip.
then on a particularly warm day,
years of thirst crashed on him at once.

such was the effect on his heart
when his invincible shield that
he thought was his protection
shattered to pieces at last.

newlywed

there's something about marriage
you can't quite explain to newlyweds.
so you let them learn on their own,
through the bad times and the good.

at first they aim to please,
as they desperately seek
to avoid confrontation
at every possible juncture.

but soon the dam breaks,
both figuratively and with tears,
fights and yelling ensue; scars form
that may take months to fully heal.

after a long while the wedding day
and subsequent honeymoon fade,
details become forgotten,
like the first words you ever said to them.

if that couple is one of the lucky ones,
then just when love feels humdrum,
something will come along to spark it,
even for just one night.

those are the moments
that define a marriage.
the squeeze of a hand
that says i love you.

i really, really want an apple,
but i've never, ever tasted one.
it's not that i'm not allowed,
and in fact i can't really say why.

i've licked one a few times,
just the right amount of exposure
to show me what i'm missing
and leave me crying for more.

day after day passes.
how come everyone
is eating apples but me?
and when will it be my turn?

how do you re-enter the normal world
after your wife kills your baby?
leaves them floating face-down in the tub,
its cries finally muffled?

they say it was depression
mixed with words I can't pronounce.
words with funny spellings.
not words like Aaron.

they tell me she's sorry,
that she couldn't control it
and she really did love him.
they tell me because she can't.

how do you move on with your life
after it's been all but destroyed?
from where does one rebuild,
when all the pieces are shattered?

anniversary on a sunny day

things were already on thin ice
before she ever walked through the door.
today was their anniversary, but, like always,
she wasn't expecting him to remember.

so when she saw him sitting at the table
with just a blank piece of paper and a sunburn,
no roses or chocolates at all,
her planned silence failed her.

he tried to explain, "no, baby, it's..."
but whatever it was, was lost,
her words exploded like bullets from a gun,
much to the same effect.

"can't you think of anything to say?"
"do you really feel nothing at all?"
"why waste your fucking time, then!"
"just go and get the fuck out!"

glasses shattered, water spilled,
and a dog next door started to bark.
stunned and without words,
he left her alone in the tiny kitchen.

she picked up the paper, its blankness mocking,
and sobbed tears, some sad, and some angry.
she didn't know if he'd be back,
and that only made her cry more.

she finally managed to wipe her eyes,
and looked once more at the sheet and saw,
a "Sunprint" watermark and something else,
an "I love you" for every time he'd forgot.

the ceo health club

living in a big city like this, the sex clubs aren't even a secret.
white-collar CEOs pay $60 by the hour to use some underage girl.
the bright, flashing neon signs of a massage parlor hide the truth --
vietnamese, korean and thai teens packed into secret rooms like the hundred dollar bills in their customers' wallets.

whenever i go to one of these clubs i always ask for their most experienced girl.
i pay the $120 for 2 hours and she leads me into a room where a makeshift curtain over the door provides our only privacy.
she takes off her clothes and reveals such a small pair of breasts i know she's not 18.
she reaches for my crotch and i grab her hand and say "no."

the thing you have to understand about these girls is that behind their perfunctory smiles
and fake orgasms there's really just a damaged soul.
when they aren't moaning they're crying and praying to a God other than the one whose name they scream during sex.
that's why instead of offering another penis to suck, tug and grind, i offer a shoulder to cry on.

life as a dining hall

an enormously large hall
filled with numerous tables.
but i won't visit them all,
even if i was able.

i can walk through this place,
head to the exit at the end.
or i could stop and chat,
perhaps even make a friend.

so what's it going to be?
head down or chin up?
leave after the main course,
or have the waiter refill my cup?

i may just stay awhile,
perhaps i'll find a wife.
i can't even see the exit,
surrounded by all this life.

vision

where i see large black
and white buttons,
a pianist sees melodic
rhythms and tones.

where i see a disfigured
face and crooked eyes,
an artist sees the tormented,
struggling soul within.

where i see a confusing array
of jumbled letters and numbers,
a genius sees pieces
of a much larger puzzle.

and where i see myself,
normal, ordinary and simple,
vying for a place in this world ...
you see so much more.

rock, paper, scissors

he had to have been at least 80,
his veiny, shaking hands
tossing salads and flipping burgers.

i worked for him as a waiter -
low pay and crappy hours.
but i always got the days off i wanted.

one time i asked for a saturday
so i could go see a concert downtown.
the day was also his anniversary.

'let's rock, paper, scissors for it,' he said.
my rock beat his shaking paper,
and for a minute i felt guilty.

another waiter tried the same thing
when no one could fill for them but the old man.
rock, paper, scissors, shoot ...

i wasn't surprised he picked paper.

running away

i stare into the night,
which always seems darker
on the outside looking in.

a streetlamp down the road
marks my first destination
on this harrowing journey.

a quick check of my motives
and a few deep breaths later,
i enter the dark silence.

never ending

how does one find purpose
in a boring nine-to-five job?
there is no deep meaning
in an everyday commute.

depression begins to sink in,
for tomorrow will be the same.
and the day after, and the next ...
what is it all for? to what end?

dissect my life into simple pieces,
such as work and livelihood ...
with a few moments of joy
strewn like sprinkles on a cake.

few and far between they are,
not enough to consider happiness.
so i live in the here and now ...
trying to convince myself it's enough.

wipers

the rain goes 'pitter-patter'
on the hospital room's window
as i wonder if the man in the bed
is scared of what comes next.

he's remembering his life,
which seems to be nothing but
one giant, momentary wisp
trailing throughout his mind.

driving home i can only blankly imagine
what must be going through his head.
it isn't even raining anymore,
but my wipers continue their tireless motion.