Purple Mountain of Despair

As disheveled as clean cut
in artificial silhouette,
too late
for relativity to matter.
The window approaches,
with creaks and groans
that some year before
would have recognized so much better.

Sounds locked into memory,
along with pain,
climbing stairs slowly,
lacking just the right amount of certainty.
Hesitation a moment before
stops mattering a moment after,
only left to wonder
what is left now.

So closed eyes try to complete the task,
out of focus and dancing,
all black and blue,
too fresh for scars.
Dreams serve more to shake and alarm
than to calmly guide,
they are wisely fleeting
with the rest of the world.

Silence only adds
to this kind of chaos,
as the inferno breathes
the same as you and I.
The blanket and the pillows
don’t know who to trust,
though they never
asked for much in the first place.

In the end, rest is left
running until fear sees
its reflection in a mirror
and pauses everything.
Here, infinity holds a secret:
proximity, it whispers,
has never before
healed a wound.

cracked, speckled sidewalks
sit still on warm spring days,
travel quickly on cool spring nights.
are we led by the paths laid before us,
or are the cracks all our own?
I am always asking questions
without answers or reason
beyond awkward attempts
at another course –
forward or backward –
to a world where
I felt something more
than broken ground
beneath my feet.

No words.
Just a pleasant poison
and background noise.
Waiting
– to get over love
to get over fear,
for another set;
making everything
bigger than it is.

a peaceful cup of
peppermint tea,
wrap your heart in
something warm.
sirens are sounding,
Doppler effect
applies to life
as well.

treadmill
running
punishing
awake in bed
turning
exhausting
time travel
flashes
in technicolor
roll over
still there
accidental marathon
no water
no line
no supporters
just me
that phone call
that email
that conversation
tomorrow
or three years ago
it never happened
never will
nightmares and
documentaries
fragile film
impossible to destroy
self
destruct
construct
visions, fears
roll over
still there
screaming
loving
roll over
still there
pace changing
fighting
falling
asleep
without you.

blank pages
and superstitions
i always know the mistake
i’m about to make.
i think about it
deeply.
i decide against it
and do it anyway.
i’m sure
i’m not the only one.
i am no match
for myself
or my superb ability
to reason.
i am a creature confused
hungry
preparing for winter
forever and always.
searching for what’s warm
and abundant
in my dreams.
it’s time again –
time to know
i’m wrong.
and woefully committed
to not changing
course.
in the midwest,
seasons fade
every day.

People
outside windows,
on benches, standing,
behind tables,
or walking
briskly.

Buildings
stretching, reaching,
a little too ambitious,
a little too close,
invading every
space.

Parks
mostly fenced in,
locked away,
but one sprawling,
suggesting
beauty past.

Noises
always somewhere,
or everywhere,
a new understanding,
a ninth grade
vocab word.

Trains
lurching forward,
jerking backward,
winding, weaving,
moving lives
in different directions.

Me
wandering, wondering
with a gaze
toward reflection
on my life
as a city.

a spark, to a flame, to a fire
tended for two and a half years.
i stared with wide eyes of a child,
having never seen something so raw,
have never felt something so warm.
i stood close, too close
and sometimes was burned.
but no storm, no rain or wind
was going to conquer that fire!
i would be there, always and forever.
i had no doubt, only fear
that something terrible would happen
if i relaxed, if i changed,
if i took my eye away for one second.
but the natural phenomenon was no longer natural –
its flames ceased dancing,
its pleasant heat faded and fled,
its beauty ripped harshly from the world.
now i’m still standing, just a few feet away,
staring, hoping, dreaming
but shivering cold.
it’s a hard way to learn:
even young love needs oxygen.

the sun’s warm
against my head-cold.
staff meeting in 30 minutes.
an office with no natural light
for hours and hours more.
we apologize for this inconvenience.
thank you for riding.

unreturned emails and calls
years and miles apart
in heart and mind.
wounds heal,
but scars last forever.

i just walked for hours alone.
now my legs aren’t as sore as my mind.
i have grown up a lot since i last took lonely strolls by the lake.
but my thoughts aren’t much different.
there’s just a face, a body, almost three years of memories
to back up the empty feelings.
it’s not as sad as it sounds.
the lake is beautiful and calm.
the sun was showing signs of warmth.
and for some select moments,
i was content.
sitting in this cafe, though, drinking chai with Purple Rain in the background,
how could i not reach back in time
for that girl who was once afraid to reveal her AIM screenname to me
because she though i’d judge her for basing it on her drink of choice.
she always got chai.
she got me out to cafes.
she got me to like wandering around the city.
to not worry so much about spending $5 if it put me in a better mood.
she helped me grow up,
but i saw too much too late.
it’s been over a year and i’m still writing these poems.
i’ve lived in my apartment alone longer than i lived in the dorm, coop or apartment 3N.
i’ve stabilized in this place,
this distressing, lonely state of mind,
but am left scribbling.
an apologist for that with which i don’t agree.
pulled by a paycheck and lacking confidence.
sure i am going the right direction.
unsure who to follow along the way.
unsure who to talk to,
who will be there when i next fall down.
who i could sit in a cafe with in the early evening,
whose hand i could hold on my next walk by the lake,
who i could cuddle in bed with, listening to my favorite music,
forgetting about the world i fight against everyday.

I get weird looks,
sitting on the stairs
alone, writing,
determined to immerse myself
in a world that helps me forget.

Tonight, there’s a bounce in my step,
but no less fear,
no less confusion
about the part of my life
that isn’t represented
in slogans and chants.

My leg is sore from walking,
my heart from searching,
my mind from never knowing
when to stop.

red shirt, cracking voice
and a bullhorn.
the most reliable place
to find my friends.
this week i needed the reminder,
a little push back into struggle,
back into a world i love
but that drains me.
sometimes you have to back off
from strategy.
get to know the people who who will
hold you up
when you put the whole world
on your shoulders
and almost collapse.

wasted paper,
ambiguous time.
words about drinking, love
and the south.
instruments i can’t play,
people i can’t start a conversation with.
enjoyable, loud,
buzzing in a night’s end.
an empty space
between sets,
between days,
between weekends without
alarm clocks.
but not without worries.
it’s ironic, in a way,
to listen to the blues –
to hear all about loneliness –
in a setting where everyone
is having fun.
where no one else
appears to be alone.
so i keep writing,
waiting for more music
from my newfound spot
at the bar.
i face outward,
as if to meekly suggest
that despite my silence, paper and pen,
i’m not antisocial.

palm on forehead,
fingers in hair.
breathing through my nose,
heavily.
eye lids closed,
left to fleeting visions
of smiles long past.
the lack of gentle touch
stands out most.
like the way you rest your arm
on your love’s leg without thinking.
like the way the gesture is returned
with a slight caress.
it’s too subtle to fully explain,
but too powerful to ever forget.
now removing my hand,
opening my eyes,
i still see what’s missing
more than what’s here.

Emptiness distracts me
from words I don’t have.
I’m counting down the minutes now,
waiting, like I have been for so long.
At least the outcome is simple.
At least in this space
I don’t have to be afraid.
I wouldn’t notice imperfection,
I don’t know any better.
But I don’t want to be here.
I like stability,
but not necessarily calm.
I like passion,
by struggle or by love.
And that makes my life more complicated
than just my daily chores.
Like sitting here while my laundry finishes.

hectic workers,
yawning dates.
it’s not late yet,
still bustling.
i look for anyone else
here alone.
i wonder if i’m judged
for my button-up dress shirt.
does anyone here know i care?
does it matter?
at least i’m comfortable,
at least it’s loud.
i can disappear
into a world i’m barely a part of.
write poems, drink my beer,
dance to the music,
but only a little.
my life is about to change.
maybe this is my way to hold on,
to that kid at the fireball expresso cafe,
to that kid writing lyrics to “llamar vannoy”
all over his psychology folder.
i’ve come a long way since then.
i’m building new roots,
growing, slowly.
chicago is my city.
i hope i’m ready for it.

Some nights, all you need
is a chorus of radiators
to remind you you’re alone.

i’ll make myself vulnerable,
if you return the favor.
maybe i’ll even dance,
if you promise not to laugh.
the music is starting now,
but i don’t know who you are.

what do you need?
time, fulfillment, love?
how about $35,000, forget about the rest?
i assume you’re for sale?
sixty hours, if you care.
fifty and some guilt if you don’t.
the labor movement created the weekend,
for everyone else.
it’s about to take mine away.
i lie and say,
“i’m not afraid.”