sum pomes

this is not a letter.

okay, it's a letter.

my room is two parts bird's nest
one part lighthouse
above the street's tarmac
so crumbling it could be cobblestone

now the snow is here
the houses across the way
look about 70% more
like gingerbread houses
and the stray cats
are 56% less agile

i am torn between listening to ella or miles or the music of this semi-silent house
were i to hold a vote
75% of the respondents would agree on nina simone
even though she hadn't been on the ballot
that kind of anger and lust i deny is always there anyway

i am alone at the moment
the dog and the cat
form spheres of warmth
on either side of me
and the various items around me seem to stare

the sun sets at four now
another good reason to wake up before noon
i can already see the blue of my veins through my skin
the subtle blue of early dusk or the blue of country roads on a map
and my skin the colour of frosted prairie fields
my body makes no sense to me
unless i make it far far away

her body
however
is the most reasonable thing
and when i leave her
i come back to find everything where i left it
like a home

but she's the kinda girl
who'll take a statement like that too seriously
so lemme just clarify
i don't trust her anywhere
but there
in the entanglements
in the sagging centrepoint of her mattress
under a spider's nest
until sunrise and sleep
and what's wrong with that?
i think she'd find that comforting
how completely i've stopped thinking
about her
when we're not naked together
i should think she might even aspire to that attitude
in her lovers
i would think that

i did think that

but i've been wrong before

anyway, i'm breaking my own rule
because like i said
i'm alone now
lining up tracks on cassettes
the cat and dog still curled around me
as the saddest song in all the world comes on
and i think of all the times i didn't ask to kiss you

i tell myself what others have told me

that these things happen for a reason

but i can't see any damn reason

why id didn't ask you every time it occurred to me

but outside
the world makes sense
things fall down
ice is cold
wheels go round
flames make smoke
cats and squirrels leave footprints
everything dances just outside touch
for the most part

sometimes things do touch
and we make note of the heat and weight
of the point of contact
assessing its meaning
merit
and value

songs are written about such simplicity
that's why it's so important
not to just go about touching things and people
so that each contact
can potentially
start a fire

or perhaps because each contact
can potentially
start a fire
i'm actually not sure

i'm pretty sure you and i could start a fire

and when it's cold like this
fires are 43% more important
and the pretty cafe girl is 87% more concealed
so i need to use 35% more of my imagination
to undress her with my eyes

i walk there some mornings

along dirt on the sidewalks

like cinnamon on wonderbread

and i pull my shoulders back

and pretend she doesn't smile at everyone like that

these and many other rituals both comfort and embarass me

but despite the past-tense lover whose body felt like home, and the cute cafe girl i daydream about
i made this lighthouse for you

i don't even know who i'm talking to
when i say "you"
really

i don't know your last name

or how old you are

but i wanted to say

when you mentioned that you could fall for me

i should've promised that i'd catch you

because i would've

i should've said it'd be ok if you fell

because it wouldn't hurt

and it'd be fun

like toboganning

but you're gone now like the geese and the robins

you left after them

as though you were their janitor

tidying up the last bits of autumn and packing it away for next year

you took with you

your eyes like two powerful little suns

so all the heat has gone out of the air

and i'm not quite sure when to wake up

so i sleep 14% more each morning

and my dreams seem 29% better than real life

but there are things to do

the grey winter seems to say

something about indifference

but that wouldn't be accurate

these days we

make posters and

we write words

all in lines like ducks or hailstorms

we learn to cook and count

we put in hours at minimum wage

we walk our dogs

and

drink beer

this is the winter
after all
we don't see very much life
the bird's nests are empty
but it's all there
underneath
waiting

like me

for you

i can't find you

i can't find you
and you're all i'm looking for

because it is equally unlikely for you to be anywhere that i am
i muster my imagination
and imagine you everywhere
every corner i turn
i envision you and that smile
and the way that you'd greet me with a kiss
and i imagine you explaining how you came to be
wherever i am
and that you engineered this feat of coincidence
because you had to find me
had to
right away
and tell me that you love me
and that you're staying

this is not possible of course

in another fantasy
i wake up alone christmas morning
with some sort of trained excitement
and i mock myself as i tumble downstairs
i let the dog out and start grinding coffee beans
when i'm done the beans
i hear his bark around the front of the house
and i grumble and toss on boots to fetch him
i walk out the front door already yelling at him
and i crash into you
and we laugh and i gasp
and you say
well
you liked what i had said about having a quiet christmas to myself
and you thought maybe you could join me
and i laugh and say
that was all bullshit
i was so lonely it hurt
til you turned up
and that would be how i felt about you generally
and we would know that
so we would kiss long and deep
and it would be the best christmas ever

this is unlikely of course

i can't find you...
all i know is
i've never been more certain
that two people feel exactly the same about each other
than when i look at you
and that's the rarest thing in all the world



when i first saw you

when i first saw you

i was tempted to boldly introduce myself

the way a gentleman might have

in some decade past.

i thought about the mamas and the papas cover of

"dream a little dream"

and had romantic fantasies about asking you to dance

even though there wasn't really any dancey music playing.

in this fantasy

we would dance to nothing and laugh

i would buy you a beer

all before my first poem, which you would think was best of all

in this fantasy

we wouldn't get to talk in the post-slam chaos

so it would be a couple of days before we would run into each other again

at the only

my friends and your friends would get drunk

and talk politics

while off to the side somewhere

a part of it all

but not

you and i would get drunk

and talk about how great

you are

i am

heartbeats romping together like puppydogs

fingertips flirting

eye contact intoxicating

almost impossible

we would BURST with things to tell each other

BOIL with the collective effervescence of our mutual attraction

and COLLAPSE into bouts of giggles

shudders

sighs

all sheep's clothing for the wolf of our desire

shortly after that

in this fantasy

we'd probably spend three or four days in bed

shirking responsibility

walking the dog

eating cereal with soy milk

letting the bed get irreparably unmade

our limbs so entangled

i would feel you stub your toe

and you would feel me pinch my finger in the kitchen cupboard

eventually however

the days or weeks or months or even years

that make up a love affair

would end.

even in this fantasy

we'd emerge from our reverie

to desire more

or less

or differently

to feel inadequate

or frustrated

or undervalued

or trapped

and to leave

to leave to hurt SO BADLY we would feel as though we could never feel that much again and live.

i'd probably have to hate you for awhile, or you me

we might have to make sad playlists

or sleep around with people we didn't care about

or drink too much

or start smoking

again

or watch crappy romantic comedies

or eat nothing but kraft dinner

or

or

or...

or maybe that's just me.

the point is

sadness and discomfort

...probably.

...most likely.

whatever the case

i was thinking i could risk it

i was thinking it'd be worth it

to boldly introduce myself

when i first saw you.