Short Story that reads more like Poetry

Loose Leaf Portraits

I saw you at the back of the 7417 car seated by the aisle where I sat across from your left side. Your eyes were closed. You sat by two girls you didn’t know. I started with the deep creases in your forehead.

I knew you weren’t asleep, and you certainly weren’t dreaming because you find yourself too intoxicated by fantasies. You were thinking of last week and this tiresome month that would soon end. It wasn’t a good one for you. Bills were paid a day shy of their deadlines, whoever’s left at home isn’t happy to see your return and a few more shingles fall off your roof every day. Or is it that you have no roof? Is this the last month of your extended stay at a lower rate? Is there no one left at home for you? Is she happy to see you leave?

There’s a second crease just below the first. When I find my way toward it, I notice the two girls in your row have seen me. They smile and look away.

You’re thinking of a few months ago when you moved to this state. It could’ve been a few years, but in your mind it’s moving as quick as the hours. You still haven’t found the job you were looking for and it’s dawning on you now that you never will.

I look at your hair and start the line that recedes as far your ears.

You think of the day you started losing it. You laid you head back on the fence behind you and when you stood up it took some of your hair with it. That fence that’s housed your childhood was more of a father figure to you than your older brother. It stopped you from running into traffic, it provided a rustic frame for the strangers you watched behind it, and it finally told you to grow up, move out, try something new.  

Your hair’s too curly, so I skip it, saying I’ll return later, and move back to the last fold before you nose. Behind it is the darkest part of your face— the well between your eyes.

Does she wait for you to return? Does she think that one day you’ll have enough courage to be with her when she wants it? She’d like to see your eyes inside those who have her nose. She’s always joked about them, but you know how serious she is about the children living next door. The shelter under her arm is like shading an ant with airplane hangar. She wants them more than she wants you.

Your eyebrow furrows, your eyelids twitch

It’s nothing but a compliment. She wants you enough to make more of you, and she may be waiting for your return today.

With your eyes closed I can see the many thin wrinkles around it. Each one is another lesson learned, or mistake made, another lover lost. You’re much older than you feel, and more experienced than you think.

As I build the shade under small wrinkles you think of the youth you wasted on anything but hard work. You want to call your grandfather, but you know he’s not around. Your father’s too far for guidance and mother wishes you’d never left the safety of those chain-link diamonds.

Your nose is more round than what I’ve drawn here for you.

You’re smelling the flowers your mother groomed below your window where you would sneak out at night.

I have to curve out the line with more shade.

The flowers eventually died by winter, and on the second year you spent sneaking out, you crushed their root’s reach. They would never grow back the same.

Too many lines now, there’s too much shade below your nostril and I can’t erase pen.

Those flowers would never grow back because of you, and your mother’s so disappointed.

The train’s electric bell dings, the two girls beside you have been watching me and I have to move down to your lips if I want to finish before your wake.

Your moustache was a statement for those who didn’t believe you were twenty-two. Now it tells them how long ago that was and that your lips have been covered and coveted.

I’m moving back and forth quickly to cover the many cracks in your upper lip until your tongue slips out and you seal them so quickly.

You’re thinking of her, and the rest of them who’ve been able to seal those cracks.

I can guess the rest and make my way to your chin where it grows dark again. Your eyes have opened to the sound of the second electric bell. The girls beside you giggle, drawing your attention for me to move back to the spotted curls in your hair. I move as fast as I can to cover the ground left of your skull and encase inside the aspirations that have brought you here on a train to the city.

This is not the job you will travel to every day. This is not the end of the goals you’ve written in soft stone beneath your pillow. These are not your friends that laugh at you in the morning because your shirt wrinkles like lunch meat below your neck.

I have to finish your neck.

This the ladder.

I follow the line of your jaw with my eyes, but my pen drags and swoops back and forth, hanging below waiting for you to cough up doubts that have your brows furrowing and wrinkling around your eyes. You stand, grabbing the seat ahead of you and gripping the thin bag you’ve had sitting on your lap. I carry your line to the end of my page. You look at me for just a moment before you turn and I can see your right side when you smile.

She’ll be happy to see you come home today.

A few more?

Drive-Thru Window Blues

I only wrote this poem
so that you would exist
on paper as the bitch
you were today.


Documentarist

I want to record
your life. I want
to watch you grow.
Do me a favor, and
tell me exactly where
I should begin.
It’s nothing to do with age,
or how well you’ve done
in school. I don’t care if you’re
headed for greatness, or cursed
to wallow in filth. I only need
one story from you. It could
be as long as it needs to be.
So long as I reach climax.
If it means getting close
to you, learning to
wind you up,
watching when you tick, and
predicting when you'll tock,
then maybe the
story will simply begin when
I turn to say hello.



Can you draw me a dream?

Walking through the
mouth of a clown
to see the person I
used to be.
Following companions,
avoiding foes and drawing
for rivals
dreams of grandeur.
Don’t tell them that this
is the past. Don’t ruin
the magic of what’s
to come. Merge your
backyard with a lover’s front
porch and thin the walls
so everyone can see.
Your pottery is too loose.
It fades its color, falls out of shape
and no one is left intrigued.





An audience of two

Let’s be the couple across the hall.
We can try on their favorite scarf,
burn a steak on their grill and have
friends over like Thursdays
were special.
It would be fun to see
you smile while cleaning
that house of its dirt. Do
You think I should
double the laces on
his knotted leather shoes?
Come on,
Honey.
Let’s pretend we’re
somebody else. When
the fighting starts again
we can close the curtains, and
say it was all for show.



Untitled

Let me be your metaphor
when you talk of making love.
Fill your cavity, diddle in finger
pies. Write a song about me,
make Valhalla come.
Grant me the joy of having
you when it’s anything
but pure lust.



Shopping in Target

Brushed shoulders in the aisle.
Won’t waste time on
better words. To say the
least of passing you,
I’m thankful this path is
not yours. If we could’ve passed
any earlier, I wonder if your
shoulders would be as stiff.
Too late to change our minds
this time. Hope we never
pass again.



Is this the evening?

Wasted another day
today. Regretted it
around five. Thought I
might could change again.
Figured I may be wrong.



Can you draw me another dream?

When I traveled through
the sewers, I stopped
to watch the mold. It
spread and fed the life
it could, and used all I
would find. When I made it
to the end and back, I
thought of an old man’s choice.
He used the games and toys I had.
He giggled for those he lost.
Then he spoke, “Get out of here.”
So I rode his wheelchair home.

Foundations of Darkness

Chatty McKathy

Stop moving your hands so
much. Stop those shoulders from
swaying and shrugging. Please stop
ending every sentence with your
head at a tilt, smiling and looking
for our interest. I hate
when you use that voice
of yours that sounds like everyone else.
I hate that you think you’re
impressing us with stories of
he said she did what’s
done of that.
I know you think we’re all
listening, and that our
laughter is genuine enough to
touch. But the truth of us
would shatter you. To know
we don’t give a fuck.



Scripting the Horror

Out of all of our friends,
I’m the one without reason.
Shaun has a talent with words,
Tom can play the guitar,
and Caley sings beautifully along.
Carl’s hands move like the jets
of a printer, and Sandra can sell
artwork like it fed and cleaned
your house. Even Simon decided
to serve the law because he’s
built new muscle since grade school.
My only goal would be to wed
the woman of which I’ve come
to notice is only there to care.
She’s trained, practiced and graduated
in the kindness of simple love. Though
too dumb to choose the
one who will love her back.
So where do I stand, in a plentiful
pool of clean water and happy
children? Maybe someone should take
a piss and stain the water before
they drink. Maybe the fact that I have
no one to put on my level means
lowering the bar for the rest. Maybe
I’ll make them earn the reasons
for which they live their lives, by
killing them off. Starting
with woman I wish to wed.   



Questioning the Horror

Are we only friends
because we live inside of
plot? Would we have come
together had it not been
for the man who threatened
all of our lives? I can wonder why
we get along, and even
why we laugh. But the
real reason I stop to
question life,
revolves only around the
demise and struggles of his.


Fighting the horror

You really want to ask
me, instead of twisting the
blade in further? Do you
think you deserve the answer?
Or is it the right time, you
think, to ask?
Jealousy is easy,
rage is just too simple.
Punishment is guaranteed,
but the scale of which is
not settled stone. What’s
happened to the mystery
of why I’ve done what
I did? What’s happened to
the shadows, and flawless
execution from A to B?
A hero is lost
in a world of anti-trust.
In two more scenes I’ll
grab the upper hand and
go on doing exactly what I
do best. They’ll give me a fucking
sequel and forget
that you even came close.




Emergency Contact

Dead at 3:08.
They told me what
had happened, and how
quickly they pronounced.
Drunk and dumb and fucked.
Sent speeding to kingdom come.
I wept for you, drove to
you. Tore my heart in two
for you, and forgot my favorite watch.
I hate what you have done tonight.
I hate you for running away.
It was not another argument,
like Sunday or Tuesday or
that horrible holiday brunch. This
was the night I’d break up
with you, and take from you
your funds. This was the
night I’d murder you by taking
away our love.
I’ll show up alone
and weep for you, like an episode
on repeat. But when I get here
they say that someone
pronounced too early.
This sorry doctor with caffeine
for fuel smiles to tell me
you’re alive. You sorry
fuck who’s beating enough to die.
So here I am, a new premiere.
I’m here to murder you at last.
I’ll have the papers by next week
and watch you sign a name I'll
soon forget. Because you
died, I lived again.
Another heartless bitch,
waiting for divorce.




Foundations of Darkness

Little Johnny woke up late
and scared his parents
with a scream. He said he’d
seen a monster tonight. Outside,
just past the window’s frame.
Daddy explained, “It isn’t here.”
He saw nothing but his crooked shadow.
The monster had been himself tonight,
projected darkness from his little
night light. “The enlarged, scary teeth,”
he said,
“are a reflection of your own.”
“Good night little Johnny and forget
your worries tonight. If he comes
back to bite you Johnny,
remember,
his teeth are only your own.”

He forgot about his troubles,
told his father goodnight
and went to bed alone. But
when he looked up, and saw
that the monster had returned,
he didn’t scream for Daddy
or Mom, or even his older sis.
He remembered what his father said
and started pulling on razor sharp teeth.
He pulled them out, hard as he could.
He pulled them one by one.

In love with the Way you Spell

Did I Think of You?

Would it help if I used your name
for next time that I write
okay?
Or even your eyes, the color
of skin, and a hint at how you smell.
If I use these words, and letters that
follow, would it help
to see how close we are
to others like her as well?
Or him, and us, and them and
their latest kid’s bud?
Would it help the tone, or
theme, morale? Would it
make a bloody difference
if I cursed out loud?
If you think it’s you, then
maybe it is. If “you” thinks it’s
him, then of course it is. But
reality will prove
that our fiction is real,
beyond nothing I say. Is it not
surreal? Fiction is clarity
under a dirty, fogged lens.
Paranoia is therapy for a
lonely lover’s friend.
We’re in this together,
The reader and I, and
anyone who thinks
this pronoun should be “I.”
I’ll wave to you in words,
smile in lies, and frown
between a comma and “U”.
I once saw a face
among the words I spit
out. It was not your scent,
had eyes of more wear, and
colored dark hair. She didn’t last
long, only enough to pro-nounce.
But if I could, I would
introduce you two. As
the man to a woman,
seed in the womb,
egg for a basket and
mirror by a lamp to
light the reader of
a fiction’s lost words.      



Do I still Think of You?

It spread as far as the grass
and bled in to the soil.
Sitting between
cracked cartons of broken
eggs, receipts for time well
missed. Oil and muck, and shitty
bad luck. If I have from you
a story or two, then our
luck will turn a buck. At least
we got to fuck.



Have I always thought of you?

Shortened hours from a rate
of four below.
Cut me.
Deep enough,
time to bleed everything
out. A path organic
toward the heart.
Didn’t have to,
wanted to.
Thought about everything else
I could do.
Came back again.
One more question,
I ask,
“Where are you going?”
Brand names, road trips.
Kevlar in neverminds.
Answer again, light as a
dove’s last fart.
“Right here.” Okay, then
why are we apart?


A thought of you, for who?

Examples, or
something to hold on to.
A lyric, or line to a
joke we both remember.
I want the detail; colors
of the walls around our smiles.
I want a point of view, an opinion
of how it all went down.
I need to see your memories, I need
to hear your thoughts. I need to see
if the words you write are
translated straight from mine.
I need the hint of a clue into you.
I’m a pro among nouns, you’re
an ass among holes. You, her,
him and them. The poem written
before the end. If you rhymed,
it would matter, if you lied
I wouldn’t care. Just give me
one thing to know I’m even there.



Waiting to think of you

You can usually find one
by tiled walls or linoleum.
If you ask the man at the door,
He can point you across the
hall. Follow the rest,
try on new clothes, check for traffic
and pick through tight teeth.
A calm before the ripple, a
shine among the steel.
I couldn’t tell you how many there are,
Or how many I’ve seen today.
But I’ll tell you one thing to
those who read.
In this mirror there’s another
of me. Who laughs, stabs,
jabs, kicks, grips, hugs, kisses and
embraces in you.




Did I think too much?

Its not important,
how I feel.
It doesn’t matter
at all if its real.
Once it’s done, written
in stone.
It can’t be turned. It
now stands alone.
The words were mine, and
came from you,
but you’ll never know who’s
who is who.
It may help to picture
puppets in hand.
different characters talking
in their own puppet land.
But you can’t have a puppet
without a left arm
and you can’t expect a fireman
to pull the alarm.
So why keep reading? Your
interest peaked.
Because sitting here bored means
emotions are leaked.

Poetry

Number #1

A fan is easy to say.
The connotation turns me away.
I wish they would make a word for me,
For someone with so much love you’ve never seen.
Oh wait, that’s right, they do.
And it was made for me and you.
Soulmates till the end my love.
If I have to cut you, split you and boil you in the tub.


Repressed Memories

Heard of a man in a coma.
Wondered if he’d seen what I’d seen
in the nine years he spent asleep.
Told him I lived right by here,
He smiled and nodded.
He knew.
I’d seen his face in the papers,
next to another one I knew very well.
Long ago, I was young when it happened.
Really, not a big deal.
It was only when I was seven,
Nothing but adventure lied ahead.
By nine years I was pubescent,
Learning more from cowardice and confusion.
Now even, I’m young.
A decade a top the rest.
But when stopped me
he asked me,
after he told me he hadn’t missed a thing,
If I ever forgave him fully,
the man who took it all away.
I stopped and turned to him wholly,
in the driveway of his new house.
Told him I’d never considered it,
but now, maybe I would.


Agendas

Saw him on the sidewalk.
Noticed the cane,
Picked up on the smell.
His dementia was obvious.
He smiled, and I nodded.
He spoke.
I didn’t listen.


An Ad for Bathroom Cabinets that are Mirrors

Your hair is too long.
You should cut it or style.
Your face is too old.
I know, you’re still young.
The eyes just look tired,
and old. Wrinkled. Ugly.
And your lips look as dry as if you
dapped them with tissues.
Your face is just sorry.
It’s dry and yet greasy.
And it’s covered with the worst.
I wish you could see this from
my angle and the others.
Simply up close is but a taste of it.
It’s not honest enough,
you know it.
It’s doesn’t mean enough because you love it.
So pretend to shop for toiletries,
and at 28۫ stop shopping.
Know what you need by this point
for that foul tasting dish of the Gods.


Microsoft Word Part 2

Because I’ve done the other one.
Though only because I would enjoy it
if I were to delete his condescending smile.
You, I don’t have a problem with.
You look old and full of wisdom.
Though I will say you’re an ass
for snoring while I work for you.



Standards

She has to feel it.
By now she can sense his heart.
He’s watched her every evening,
for twenty minutes, at least, a day.
Studied her every curve,
every outfit she’s ever worn.
He knows how many steps it takes her
to get from her building to the curb.
Maybe she’ll warm his heart today,
or drop a few more quarters instead.
Eventually he’ll have enough for her.
But at this rate, it might take years.


Miles Away

If we meant what we said,
with a phone to our head,
I would never have let you go.


Lunch Hours

Watched my dog eat for three hours.
Threw him food until he fell over.
He huffed, he drooled, and spit up and puffed.
Then I threw him some more.
Watched my dog eat today.
Watched my dog die.


Lost Online

Your smile was genuine,
your laugh here was loud.
That squint used to mean playfulness.
Those cheeks, I remember, wanted more.
This one shouldn’t be here.
It’s place is out of order.
Those lips should have been full here.
Your lashes should hang low.
I should’ve been kissing you
on your profile picture from November.


Goals in Life

Found a tweet.
Posted it again.
Dropped my phone.
But I bought one more.
Just in case.


Dvd Collection

There are so many to choose from.
Even categories to help.
For some reason that stack's more colorful,
the second from the left.
I guess you could’ve guessed that.
If I asked you just before,
you really should’ve known that.
You’re really not that funny.



Priorities

I want you to do my body.
I like when it warms up fast.
Then you can light up my face.
My make-up should be done by then.


Microsoft Word

I’m certain his eyebrows aren’t attached.
That makes me wonder about his eyes.
It’s odd he has a nose there,
when really its just my eyes.
I wish he would stop reading this.
There isn’t any time to tell him why.
Soon he’ll be reading his last words,
before I right click his bendy ass to death


Watch With Me the Past


I see you’ve started without me.
Already up at the counter.
And you’re rubbing your palms against the glass,
leaving marks and stains for hours.
Sweat from my back stuck to that damn silk shirt.
It was light and thin, and shined a bit,
and the creep in the corner with the laptop couldn’t help but stare.
You told me about him later, but he wasn’t the reason you frowned.
It wasn’t because I didn’t see him, or that if I had, I didn’t think twice.
It was because you never looked for him. At all, today or the past.
“I’ll just have a coffee. Medium sized is fine.”
“Coffee? Really? You don’t want sweet? Something to tickle your tongue?”
You slithered through your teeth at me, the possibility that I was wrong.
I believe that may have been joking. We’ve been over this again before.
 I see your sense of humor hasn’t changed, or even appeared there at all.
And you haven’t lost the habits that hurt you, you’ve added ones that’ll kill.
Just like your parents, you’ll smoke them away. Till you burn, and embers burn fast.
At least I’m not in hiding. I’ll show myself when I want. I’ll take what I can get, and steal what I cannot.
And what of the things you used? What of the things you’ve wasted?
I lost you didn’t I? Tell me how I’ve wasted.
Tell me while I pay for you. Your medium regular coffee.
Reaching through tight denim.  I hated those pants you bought for me. I couldn’t carry a thing in them. I wore them only for you.
And I told you to use my purse that day. Even when it slipped and fell to the ground. You refused to let me carry for you, your phone, your wallet and keys.  
It was fine, nothing broke. Only a crack and a bit of dust.
And the clerk had a laugh at you. She watched you bend over, and she noticed the couple behind us.
I wish I had seen them the first time. Their presence meant so much. They could’ve told us how it would be like. Their stories could’ve been framed for us.
Those old folks a foot behind us? They smelled, and moved like rust. He even gave me look once. Right after I grabbed my straw and cup.
He stared at me like he knew me, he was older and thought he could teach.
Judging me through thick frames that were built and bought in ’69.
I snarled when I passed right by him, and I’ll snarl even now from behind. I’ll snub his dirty little girlfriend, and I’ll insult his pretty little wife.
So along with your sense of humor, your respect hasn’t aged a bit.
I’m wondering how long before I find you, in a jail, a hospital or dead.
I’ve already given them up for you. I’ve already spent months and years alone. Every time we do this I realize, how completely stupid I’ve been all along.
Every time we relive this last moment, my frustration comes through paper thin. I want you back so badly that I’ve framed today's last kiss.
I don’t know what to say to you. I’m not sure how to break it this time. I know this is the only time we’ve done this, though it feels like routine to begin.
I waited for you time and again babe. I waited for you to forget today. I can’t believe you haven’t learned this yet, and I’m certain you never will.
I’m eighty now, and married. With three grand kids on the way. It was a great kiss that day in the café, and for those years before that follow. But I never wanted you to relive these moments, or look back on what you did.
It was about forgetting the rest of it, forgetting the past at all. And look forward with me for the rest of it. The real memories of yet to come.
I know you’ve said this before to me. The first time feels like the last.
But just watch with me for the last time. One more time. Together this time.
Watch with me the past.