i was sitting in a public bathroom stall; the kind where they go all the way down the walls in rows, lots of them, like shiny teeth. the hygienic paper they provide to place on the seat, two under my thighs. i couldn't go, the lights were too bright, maybe. it was probably that terrible jason mraz song coming out of the speakers or the smell of cheap soap.

you were out there at the bar, i was probably drunk, on the brink of sad and lonely, or something, whatever it is any of us call it on a day to day basis. i was thinking of a quote i had heard in some film a few days ago, it was written on my brain with a chewed up black bic pen: "you are of no consequence". five words. i was trying to grasp this feeling; an infants tiny-handed moon-grasp, like it was some beach ball they could grab. you know? impossible. you are of no consequence. this must be what everyone is wanting, i thought, sitting there. it's a secret, i guess, but i don't mind telling.

i cried a little, meditating on a life free of weights that aren't yours to hold, or honor and expectation, or the heart and mind being capable of holding on to one free, lovely thing like crying from reading a book or the best god damn kiss you've ever had for more than five minutes, when the earth hums to you instead of the exact sum weight of all our shoulders in pounds. maybe it was that fucking bright lighting, i just wanted the fluorescent inside me instead of out, i wanted my veins numb and brain quiet. what i wanted was to go outside and tell everyone i saw that they were of no consequence, no consequence at all, ever. i closed my eyes and got up, looked in the mirror and washed my hands, nothing accomplished, nothing different, i walked back and ordered a shot and an ice cold beer, i never told you a thing.

you are of no consequence.  

the wise ones

i wanted to save my teeth
but they cracked them into pieces. 

colt .45s

i mean, god damn
come on, get down to my bones
sure, i can handle it, I'm begging you even.
we'll start a fire, become a collision, a two man showdown
fisticuffs or revolvers, i don't care, isn't that love?  isn't that love?
in french "folie" can mean derangement or insanity,
and "jolie" is the word for pretty
just one letter separates them, how about that? just one.
you never learned.
i want you to know past skins, bones, mouths, worlds, it's all here
sitting there with the two of us
and me there so patiently, my soul is shaking from the patience.
i mean kisses like falling dreams, the air between extra-astronomical.
i'm asking you to be the lies to the priest in a confessional booth, 
the sticky sweat on girl-thighs 
in a catholic school skirt in a hard wooden desk in june.
be august, be christmas, be oceans, read poems to my hips,
how when catholics talk about prayer it just means this kind of kiss. 
my rifles at the ready.
shake my soul, cowboy, I'm waiting for it.

from across the world.

single man sitting neatly inside eating what looks like a b.l.t,
watching me pull doors that say push, walk in and right back out of a bookstore and wander aimlessly; disconcerted:

"confused?!" he smiles.

me, opening the door to the outside world, right before i closed it behind me, doing my best margot tenenbaum announced, face deadpan & distracted:

"i am experiencing tragedy."

four shades, black

when i was small i told my art teacher during a lesson of colors
that there were four shades of darkness
i can't remember exactly what i meant, there, at seven
but i do remember squinting at the color wheel on the wall
blending the visions together like i would with the television.
i don't think she had any idea what i was talking about 
but there's a chance she did,
there's always a chance with humans.
"quit sitting on your knees," she said.