Whirled Ramblings

From Entry #18:

Nothing quite like
saying good night-
almost sadder than goodbye-
even though the night has broken you
from the inside out.

Can you take anything away from it?
Perhaps some nice acquaintances
and unusual stories
you can share forever.
Maybe a view into
how the conservative mind works
is something you could take away
from this dubious year.
But in the end, as spring draws near,
it's time to go.
Say goodnight.

And now you'll drift,
like in the days gone by
when you wandered into the quiet downtown
for a secret smoke.
It's not like you were hiding it from anyone.
You just needed the peace,
something you couldn't have
when everybody knew you.
All you wanted was to puff on a Capone,
but your scaredy fingers
couldn't even strike a match.

It was easy to leave the cancer sticks behind,
but something like this
tears a little bit at you.
It begs a tricky question:
Are you addicted to working?
You ask youself so many times
how stay at home moms do it.
You know you couldn't do that
because you would go insane.
Have you become conditioned
to the working man's grind?
Has it gotten to the point you won't retire
because you won't know how?
You know you can't quit this,
but who knows what it's doing to you?
Yet you keep sayin' to yourself
"It's not so bad."

So as you walk out that door
to something resembling freedom,
try not to dwell on the fact
that you quit. You left.
You needed to do it
for your sake,
so enjoy the time.
You need a little head space.
You may have quit,
but it just might be for the best.

From Entry #74:

Feel like I've
been wandering alive
ever since the day you died.
And try as I might,
I soon can see
the last threads of youth sliding away.

I mourn for the days
when I danced to theater
for animatronic plays
'bout fruits and vegetables
singing their virtues
to the audience's delight.

And where, oh where
has the purple dragon gone
with his sparks that lit up my mind?
These things are gone,
and it won't be long
till you become like them in my mind.

But I'm not ready to say goodbye
when you were the last bit of my childhood still alive.
This morning I woke up to
go to a party
where I spent two hours
yakkin' 'bout my job.
I've said before how I feel so old.
Now, more than ever, it's hit me.

When I say goodbye to you,
I'm losing the last of what
my shaky had to offer to me.
You're gonna be buried deep in my mind
with day long bike rides and Sesame Street.
You'll lurk when I put
my fingers to the keyboard
as you showed me how to do this when I was five.
I feel so old.
I feel so old.
I never felt you go let go on
the day you died.

And then there's you, standing before me,
making me laugh since I was eight
and nuturing inner owl
as I stayed up way past bedtime.
it took me time to understand
all the barbs you flung away
at the foolhardy motherfuckers
standing in the spotlight
guilty as fuck and talkin' out their asses.
But I still giggled and wondered when
Branford left, leaving the music to Kevin.
What the hell happened
to those 17 years, the years
I'd grab an opportunity to laugh
at your jokes and your flubs
and your silly presentations?
Watching you last time-
I can't say goodbye.

I knew you were leaving, but goddamnit
WHY NOW?
I already lost one large thread
that connected me to feeling young.
Was I really watching it
the day you died?
You might back, but there you died.
When you stood out there to present your legacy,
I felt like I was watching you die.
Not right now.
Not right now.
It hurts too much to watch you die.
Not right now.
Not right now.
I don't wanna have to
say goodbye.

But where will we be when it's time
to let go of what formed our minds?
I wouldn't be me if you'd hadn't
led me to the telescope
and would have laughed less
without news clippings pasted to black boards.
Where was I on the day you died?
I rested in the home I can call my own
because I'm older now, older now
with only memories to
redeem my youth.

Say goodnight. Say goodnight.
I don't really want to.
Say goodnight. Say goodnight.
Don't drag it out of me.
Say goodnight. Say goodnight.
Can't bring myself to dot it.
Say goodnight. Say goodnight.

fine.

Doesn't seem to matter
between those words.
Goodbye or goodnight,
it matters not.
It's still me
laying my youth to rest.
I've traded it in for
the adult lifestyle,
a way I've been seeking for 25 years.
Though I still want it, I know with comes
the end of the days where I could deny
the pain my childhood
that would never fade away.
It buried itself in learning how to dream
and gleaning knowledge
from my nocturnal journeys.
I could almost ignore when I turned on the shows
from my trips to Epcot
when I tossed my cares to Dreamfinder
to carry off.
You threw me under
the bus of my past,
a bus that crushes my body over and over.
I needed these threads to keep me strong,
but now they're vanished.
Goodnight.

From Entry #92:

'Way from the flowers
and the blooms of the night,
we're lightin' it up and gonna roll roll roll
while the drama in the back gone
make me wanna puke when it's
rollin' hard, rollin' hard.
Who am I to talk when it
occurs to me that
the instant I leave the war breaks out?
None of this shit's on my watch as it rolls
rollin' on, rollin' on.

So by candleight and oil-burnin' lanterns
I set up the mega chess board and pieces
namin' each one in every color
after blacks, blues, yellows and many more.
I call up an opponent knowin' damn well his name:
"Who are you?" "I am Ramk."

I point to myself and call for the black side
lettin' my inner devil roll it hard.
Ramk takes the other side, and we spot
familar people linin' up to watch us,
hangin' on the sides.
Lookin' at my pawns--
time to roll on in
three. two. one.

I'm thinkin' 'bout blogs as I
push my pieces flat 'cross the board,
lookin' for a check. Gots to have it.
As each piece gets taken out,
I think of those blogs being
gone with the wind
as their owners delete them.
As I take each piece and drag it off the board,
I wonder when more of mine will fade away
as I gave 'em bad names,
names of those I don't want around.

So what am I gonna
have to sacrifice?
I just wanna see these motherfuckers gone
so my morally gray queen
can walk the line and
put that motherfucking king in check
for screwing my king
and leaving him for lost,
leaving him for lost
only to incur the queen's vengeance.
Don't you dare provoke my wrath
as I stalk the arboretum,
lookin' to mow you down.

Don't take my king just to
jip the man,
or I'ma gonna put you in the
line of check.
There I go. You're in check.
Think you can move straight outta my line?
Yeah, you do, but here I go
sacrificin' a bishop named
after a gem,
except that he(?) is not a gem.
Take him out. Thank you kind.
But did you see what you did?
You put yourself straight into my line.
Checkmate's mine.
Checkmate's mine.

I look up and see Ramk smile at me,
his tight lips glowing in the candlelight.
Our friends toss pencils and books in the air
as they let loose with whoops fit
to wake the nation.
The morally gray queen's done his work
to end the power trip that nullified her king.
Why be intimidated by a mellow man
when a ruthless woman will mow you down?

So SM, when you see me walk through the gardens,
don't think for a second that I'm calm through and through.
I'll use them all.
I'll use them all.
I'm gonna find a way to beat you
at your own game.

From Entry #104:

Oontz oontz oontz oontz.
Oontz oontz oontz oontz.
The air pulls the water from my skin before
I even start to move.
I sway my hips as they bring her to the bed,
strap her down, braid her hair
and prepare to cut her off
to the beat of house tunes
that reverberate through my bones
like the beat of an h-bird's wings.
Looking on at my companions,
I see they're ready to rock.
The flame-haired one's
eyein' the sturdy brunette
who has a beard and a son
south of the equator.
With a smirk, I throw my hands up
as they recount her offenses.

Once upon a time, she told the world
that she was 16 and popped out an infant.
A little girl called Mary Alexandria
was paraded for the interwebs masses,
and we were supposed to buy the story
of a teen baby mama
schoolin', prommin', just teenagin'.
I didn't buy that shit
with a forty dollar bill.
So I swivel my body and bring
all the boys to the yard
while they talk M.A.'s supposed death.
The blade comes down
with a heavy hand,
and I spin as the head falls
into the basket.
My companions look at me,
eyes twinkling platinum,
and we make our to the front.

The platform beckons with
its erected net and flashing floor.
Glancing over, I see the other team:
a lanky guy with chocolate tresses like mine,
a stout gent beside him with green eyes
boring into the corpse,
and a teeny weeny chica who
I watched do flips on my TV.
One looks hot-I imagine the dom-
but nothin' can be said 'bout the others.
The executioner sets down the sword
and picks up the basket.
Our spikers are called upon to guess
at her exact age.
My brunette calls it damn close at
18 years, 7 months, 3 days.
We get first serve.
Time to party.

I pull my hair back with a
skull and crossbones scrunchee
before hitting the platform.
I lock sable eyes
with my hazel orbed brunette
before staking out a spot in the middle
next to the Flame.
We hunker down as our spiker
takes the head of the pathological liar
and slams it through the air,
over the net.

From there, I tune it all out:
the soaring synthesizer, the pulsing lights,
the raucous roar of the crowd
as the braided head gets tossed back and forth
like a hot potato.
Don't grab the braid,
yet the other side does so three times.
I squat and hold my arms in a vee,
waiting for the head to fall on
our side of the net.
When I feel the pallid skin slam
against mine, I jerk my arms up,
the head bouncing back in the air.
From the corner of my eye,
I watch the flame bring up
for our spiker to send back.
Grey matter splashes on the top of the net,
the lying essence not-so-clear for all to see.
I feel the sweat on the soles of my feet,
and I squat lower to not slide across the platform.

"19 serving 10!"
The clarion call jolts me out of my bumping
in this celebratory bump and grind
as we rejoice the death of
a pathological liar.
When you fuck with our heads in life
we get to fuck with yours in death,
makin' games of volleyball
in a rave-like atmosphere.
Our spiker sets it like it ain't no thang,
and I kneel again like it's nothing new.
Sweat streaming down my back
in my gray bra cami,
I huff and puff to bring the house down
with my digs to keep the other side
from bringin' us down.
We've got it in us to take it all:
money from the liar's next of kin
and the knowledge that we got to
watch her join her delusions in hell
while the girl in the photos she
yanked from Flickr to pose as her daughter
is alive and well somewhere
in Guadalajara, baby.
Come on make it 20! Come on make it 20!
Just two more points, and the prize is ours.
20, 20, 21-
we're almost there. Just a little bit more.
And with one more heave of
my outstretched vee,
a roof-raising bounce, and a pounding
hard enough to send a dead
eyeball into the stands,
it is ours. One hundred grand a piece
and omniscience. Gotta love it!

So how will we celebrate? I can tell you this.
The flame's gonna grab a few drinks
with his emo love, a mess of charcoal hair
and stormy eyes.
Our striker's gonna make everyone
all hot and bothered with illicit dancing
with that blond almost-twink
who lingered a bit close to the platform all night.
Me? I'mma take a little money, place a couple bets
and dance with a glowing plastic halo
around my head. Gonna call out some more
pathological liars.
Can't stand those fuckers, but this
makes me feel a bit better.

From Entry #154:

"You didn't see this."

"I'm hallucinating."

"Here's 500 bucks."

"You didn't hand me a cent."

So goes my day at the art museum,
wandering its byzantine hallways
and stumbling upon random hand carved gems.
I hoof it up the stairs to the panorama
where I can match the buildings
of the city's infantille skyline to names
I didn't always know.

Wandering past the Louvre exhibit too popular
for me to gain access, I cast quick glances
at the Native artworks as I wander to the contemporary wing.
It's there when I saw them.

In one room, basking in the light
of two overgrown desk lamps
was a spinning aluminum wheel,
back and white bars decorating the edge,
playing in front of the video cameras
like drunk 15 year old girls.
The other room, sharing the same space
but cordoned off by heavy black,
showed the bars' cinema show,
an exhibition on the commuting way.
I tiptoed into the black room
to play the ironic voyeur,
not realizing the irony would slip away.
Two men of matching height stood in the center
just outside of projector range,
heads touching as they watched
the back and white bars whiz by.
I stayed in the corner, looking upon both displays,
leaving before the men could move.

The second time was in the Baroque wing,
where a painting from just last year
hogged wall space adjacent to the classics.
The present day canvas showed two not-dead youths
(males, clear as day) gazing out at us.
What had happened to them? We got no clues.
The painting jumped out with its ultrabright pigments,
and now I could see the men I saw before
in similar Technicolor: a blonde with surreal green eyes
with his arm around a scruffy brunette.
I flicked a glance at them and then at the notebook on
a lectern against the wall.
The notebook begged us to comment on the paintings,
the juxtaposition of past and present.
I checked to see if the men noticed me
before crossing the expanse of laminate flooring
to whittle my dissertion-esque thoughts
to a single paragraph on the first blank page I found.

They confronted me in the Japanese wing.
I found myself gazing upon modern pottery pieces,
my eyes lingering over a peacock teardrop bottle
and a rippling celadon platter.
Looking from the bottle to the rippled plate,
I catch a sliver of their kiss as they stand by
the tea room exhibit, their vivid features
standing out from the gray-blue walls of the wing.
My eyes dart away too late, too late.
They stride over.
I feel their heavy footfalls in the squeaky laminate.

We stood face to face,
me staying focused on their eyes
while trying not to notice their interlaced hands.
I play stupid and hope no one else
is in the wing to see me take the bribe
when the truth beckons me to bring it to the lights.
It is when I am face to face with them
that I see exactly who they are
and why they're so eager to buy my silence.
I wonder if they saw the Louvre exhibit,
were moved by its weight,
aroused by its sensuous details
like they were when gazing upon Surreal
and almost real sculptures from years gone by.
If they did, they'd go bankrupt attempting
to hush an entire city.
Still, I'll pretend nothing happened for
too damn little money
and wait for the day when they're
plastered all over the internet
for their supposed significant others to see.
Then I'll celebrate with a nice dinner and a jaunt
to the museum.

From Entry #181:

Leaves yellow-green,
awaken anew
to remind me it's time to get maudlin
in my private nation.

I was hoping to get out of it, you know.

But then people find
old verses that paint
the scars on my heart and mind
I pushed to the most remote corners of my brain.
When the reviews make their way
to my inbox,
I remember again.

I remember again.

But this is the time
when I say
now's the time
to step out,
cleave fear out of the hearts of women and men,
and face my own scars
on my heart and mind.

With my will of steel, it is a
question of when I will break.
I will not break.
I have to learn how to bend.
The might oaks fall in the monsoon season
when their trunks are battered
by the relentless waves.
The grass at the roots bends
to the whim of the waves.
My trunk cannot take the lashing.
I have to learn the suicide
forwards and backwards bends
that deliver rewards to
gymnasts and ski jumpers alike.
The bending will
test me like no other,
pressing me to rip open the scars.

But the scars are always there,
still festering with off-yellow pus
bubbling from the neuron-crevices,
creating new vapors I cannot ignore.

I must tamp them down before
they knock me right now.

So off I go
on a spirit walk
to those just outside my immediate life.
I need their counsel to
see me through this transition
in adjusting to my environs
without breaking my spirit.
I cannot let the lingerings cats
in my office circle,
hissing their remarks amongst their
herd-members.
I am the lone ranger,
watching the fight waged
while their backs are turned.
I tried to change it
but almost lost my life.

I will rebuild a burnt bridge
on a roundabout route,
volunteering to spare others
the pain of turning one's back
against one's will.
I want to say I'm sorry but am the only one.
I want to say I'm sorry but need to conquer the fear.

I ready my sword and prepare my brain
to reopen the scars, vacuum out the pus
and pull others away
before the fear monster claims them.

I will not stand for the new American Fear.

From Entry #234:

So say what you want.
You're nothing more than an everyday schmuck
editing Wikipedia just to watch the crowds go boom.
Who goes from denying shit to announcing an engagement?
Certainly not the man in your crosshairs.

In the meantime,
I'mma step aside
and watch as the ladies
cry for countless reasons.
Be it joy or jealously,
get the Kleenex ready
'cause it's about to go down.
Ready to roll
with the J.D. at hand,
let me call my favorite Austries
so we can observe
the meltdown.

The first says no
while muffling his tears,
even though I knew
this day would come,
the day when he'd kick his own ass
for staying inside for far too long.
I offer him some Jack,
but he says no.
Can't do much for him.
NEXT!

I get better luck on my second go-around,
as a gorgeous man accepts my invitation.
I can hear him brush his chocolate locks
behind his ears over the phone,
as he accepts my offer to kick it with the booze.
He hides his flawless English in throaty accent
that makes me wonder
if my fiancé taught him how to project.
That could make for an interesting evening,
but I have more calls to make.

In the end, I have a decent crowd:
the Austrie named like a former UN sec,
three Norwegians lighter than the rails,
and one American who can chill like a vill'
with the best of the best while glidin' in the snow.
We break out the lawn chairs
as October draws close
so we can raise the roof on the place.
(Go, boys!)

The first group offers up a simple congrats
wrapped in Day-Glo paper that screams like the sun.
The dove gray clouds obscures their tears,
so Cameron the Camera can't come out to play.
Down goes one quarter of the Jack
as the sun breaks in time for second group.

This time the guys show up with beers
and ideas amok for the man's last free night.
No tears linger on the orbs of these young men,
as they're glad to have their girlfriends back.
Nothing says like schadenfreude like an engagement,
and these guys are ready to roll.
I love you peeps. You're awesome.

The sun glows hotter as the sad girls start
to file in, their heartbreak unfettered.
I kind of understand, but my heart weeps
for a much different reason (one I keep to myself).
Cameron the Camera beckons me-
Come on, Stiky. You know you want me.
Set the shutter on 1/250; crank the aperture
as high as it will go; and when high noon hits,
the tears will sparkle.
I'm ready to open for you.
So I grab Cameron and fire it up.
My boys see what I'm doing and hop to their feet.
They're consoling the girls and offering the booze.
Goddamnit, you guys!
That's not how it goes!
At least my Austrie understands.

Then comes the group I've been waiting to see:
the guys who fought like hell not to cry,
for that would mean they'd have to face their fears
in a way I can't begin to comprehend.
Yet oddly enough, my heart breaks for these men,
'cause hey. I wanted to see the guy end up with a guy.
Cameron won't leave me, and I snap the frames
until a familiar face makes me stop.
Always thin, he looks featherlight
and hopeless in a navy blue jacket
damn near hanging off his arms; he could swim in it.
Hold off, Cameron. I really have to go.
I run to the young'un and can't help but marvel at
how the sneaky clouds exaggerate his tears.

"How dare you celebrate this shit!" he screams.
"I know," I tell him, "but it helps me bear the pain
of not getting you the chance to love him. I wish
I could've done more, but my hands were tied.
I couldn't tell that man what to do if you had a gun to my head.
I know your love for him, and it breaks my heart.
Why don't you come over here and have a drink? It's on me.
Then we can discuss photography."
"You can't salve me so easily.
I know how you operate. You're getting off on this.
That's why Annan's here, smirking at the heartbreak.
Callous fucking bastard. Callous shit."

At that, my mouth drops to the depths of Hell,
where Michelle Bachmann's pegging Sarah Palin.
Gotta burn my jaw for dropping in on that,
but first I gotta get the record straight.
"Now, boy, listen to me now. Your teammate is simply
not like that.
He's here to observe and to say along with me that
the emotions run wild at engagement announcements.
If you'll hear me out,
I'll break it down for you again.
He's a good guy, and so are you.
I know you're in pain, but we gotta mock it away.
There's no need to cry when I'm at your side."

With that, he shrugs and heads for the booze,
the bottle on its last quarter and scrapin' the glass.
I watch as he uncaps it and tilts his head back,
that long, lean neck curving in a near-perfect arch.
In the distance, I see the Engaged One watching,
the clouds detailing the regret in his eyes.
It wasn't my call, but what can we do?
Their love is still not allowed.

In the end, while most of the boys console the girls,
I walk Annan back to my place
where my darling love waits, my Yashica in his hands.
That smile is quite a promise.

From Entry #307:

And it's a strange sort of glory
like I'm singin' allelujah
even though it worships a god
in which I do not believe.

When I think of the stressors
that overrun my life,
I cannot help but think to myself
that this shit's meant to be.

Think about the last day
when you truly felt free.
If you struggle to remember,
then it's time for you to go.

Look around at the walls
all adorned and scarred with crosses.
How the fuck did all those get there?
You don't even wanna know.

Think about it.
Think about it.
This is not the place to be.

Think about it.
Think about it.
Yeah, I know it's gonna hurt.

Think about it.
Think about it.
Can you live in that straitjacket?

I beginning to see that
for you there's no reason to believe.

And it's a strange sort of glory
like I'm singin' allelujah
even though it worships a god
in which I do not believe.

When I think of the stressors
that have overrun my life,
I cannot help but think to myself
that this shit's meant to be.

Now tell me 'bout the last time
when you looked at the nation's flag
and felt something that could
recognized as pride.

And where did you see it
when you didn't feel disgusted?
Was it flapping in the gust,
or was it tacked on a jacket's side?

Let me know.
Let me know.
I suspect that it's the latter.

Let me know.
Let me know.
It was not your emotion.

Let me know.
Let me know.
The haze is breaking away.

Time to shake off the lenses
that only obscured your sight.

And it's a strange sort of glory
like I'm singin' allelujah
even though it worships a god
in which I do not believe.

When I think of the stressors
that have overrun my life,
I cannot help but think to myself
that this shit's meant to be.

So what is it like right now?
(A soul-shaking euphoria)
Your head must humming.
(Like a warm electric shock)

Do you see what I see?
(A cavalcade of zombies.)
And what do you want to do?
(Put some bullets in their brains.)

But for now,
let's live large.
They might die out
on their own.

'Cause it's time
to enjoy
that feeling
of unshackled dreams.

It's so strange,
but you know
that you're
finally awake,

For what feels
like the first time
since the day
you were born.

You're reborn...you're reborn...you're reborn...you're reborn
but this time, you can remember
what you did to get this far.

And it's a strange sort of glory
like I'm singin' allelujah
even though it worships a god
in which I do not believe.

When I think of the stressors
that have overrun my life,
I cannot help but think to myself
that this shit's meant to be.

And it's a strange sort of glory
allelu-u-u-u-jah.
Like I'm singin', like I'm singin'
allelu-u-u-u-jah.

When you no longer believe,
it's like a migraine faded to gray,
and yet your mind, heart, soul and body
sing allelu-u-jah.

From Entry #316:

I struggle to remember when we met.
Then again, we spent that night swimming in whisky
at a party where everyone was soused,
masking their bodies from the December chill.
I remember leaning against the bar,
passing the tumbler of Gold to you
as we each took sips
while keeping time with a mid-90s dance classic
that had your cohorts on the dance floor.
Even with five scotches under my belt,
I was the closest to sober in the club that night.

Sometime before we drowned in the spirits,
you rigged my phone, slipped me your number,
and grabbed a photo from my Duluth collection for your icon.
You bastard. You found my weak spot.
Can't say much more there
as I wander into the restaurant lobby.
I figure you'll be inside despite the summer sun.
We shouldn't be here.
We shouldn't be here.

I might have been on business when we first met,
but a night for the fans turned the tables on me.
I actually saw you in the theater lobby,
a tumbler of whisky in your slender fingers.
A trio of brunettes, but I saw you first,
lured in by the sweater that hugged your body.
You turned just a bit, and I saw the
essay on Godwin's Law lurking in your eyes
as you recalled an incident at work
involving an unexpected German/Jewish discrimination.
What were you doing
going to see an action film?
I had to find out
lest I go mad.

I knew that we'd all migrate
to the club that night, and I wondered
how you'd handle such an event.
You struck me as one who did not cavort much,
although that ring I spotted threw me for a loop.
All I'll say is he better take good care of you,
especially after what happened that night
(for I know I could never be there).
To hear you confess to
drooling in your popcorn over me?
I had to remember to breathe.
I still can hear your words as we left the theater:
"That man was worth the price of admission."

I woke up the next morning with a sandpaper mouth
and an appetite that rivaled my husband's.
After eating six eggs for breakfast,
I tried to piece together what happened that night.
The images floated through my head as I
cleaned up the kitchen-nary a headache in sight.
My husband asked me how my night was,
and that's when the pieces fell together.
I told him everything that didn't happen to me:
body shots off your cohorts, my friends dirty dancing
and the bartender struggling to pace with our drinking.
I said that I found a good perch for observing
and absorbing details of the environs.
In the midst, I barely mentioned your name.
I just said, "Guess which British actor was also in attendance?"

He asked if you did anything stupid,
to which I said, "Lemme think.
I know he was drinking, but I can't remember what.
If he had danced, I would have remembered,
for that would have been his best comedy work."
That drew a laugh from my husband's chest,
and I went about my day in a breeze.
I ignored your number for a couple months,
only finding it when I decided to call my aunt.
The miniature lake shore taunted my memory.
I wondered if you even remembered that night.

The club's bright hues shocked my senses.
I expected a room plastered in dark velvets
from the ropes to the walls.
Instead, prismatic panels changed hues in a blink,
swathing the partiers in strange orange-green glows.
The bar itself stood apart, a proud ice castle
holding a drunkard's wet dream of every liquor known to man.
I watched you trail your friends so you could drink it all in:
the bass 'neath our feet and the shrill shrieks of the fans.
I trailed, too, let my cohorts go first
to mingle and imbibe in the pending excess.
Soon I was at the bar, and you were at my side.

Your disbelief caught me off guard,
like you were expecting a less put together look from me,
but when I saw you pretend not to stare at my tie,
I made every effort to conceal my grin.
From the shake of your head to your sharp demand for whisky,
I suddenly realized how out of place you really felt.
I asked for what you had and sat down to
making you feel a little more at ease,
allowing you to ramble about the nerdiest shit:
logical fallacies in science fiction shows.
That's when I really paid attention,
hanging on your drawn out vowels.
"Let's take a rahde to the cinema show!"
I hoped the booze would kill my arousal.

I stared at the icon, and the night reassembled
in my head like old marching drill.
You broke my combo with close cropped locks
in a hue that reminded me of summer peaches, ready to eat.
And curse those eyes in a color
that has only betrayed me in the past.
Yet I found that I couldn't delete your number
despite all the shit that having it entailed.
You wanted me to find it,
and found it I did.
I fired off a text just before
my husband showed up for our walk.

Your response surprised me:
show me who you are.
I found myself firing off link after link
while remembering what I told you in the club months ago.
"Like you, I'm a writer, studied it a bit in college
but left it when I found a logical lover.
The cameras called me in a delicate time of need
and have been with me for over a decade."
I wondered if you even recalled all my rambling,
as we were both five sheets to the wind.
When you left a comment on my portraiture wibbling,
I started to wonder if you were actually drunk that night.

Starting when I was 24 or so,
I started to remember things I did while imbibing.
That night, I would have liked to forget the sight
of the film's star lying on a table
with tequila on his abs.
Instead, I clung to the sound
of your laughter ringing through the crowd
as someone tried to sing along to dubstep Nyan cat.
I mourned the moment when you slurred
that it was time for all of us to go home.
How I nicked your phone after all that booze I'll never know,
and I wondered if you'd ever get the message.

You took forever sending that text,
and I didn't see it till a break on set.
I waited to respond; I couldn't explain to anyone
why I had sought out a fan I only met
for a few hours during the holidays.
Perhaps I was hoping for a dirty photo message
with my response, but your idea
made a lot more sense.
You know how to play it close to the vest.
As I sifted through your photos and read your stories,
I understood why you were off the market (to my dismay).
The compulsion to read more
brought me to your journal.
I wondered if you would be willing to see me again.

So here we are on the west side of town,
surrounded by youngsters wanting to be "in".
It's a strange place for two nerds of a feather.
Yet once I'm inside, a new courage takes over.
I can't even feel the ring on my left hand.

I sat here and waited, nursing a glass of merlot,
wondering what you'd be like as the warmth embraced the land.
Your dress lets you blend in with the shallow crowd
before you drown them in truth tables and ethics,
ethics I suppress when I look at my left hand.

This time we're meeting on our own terms:
light alcohol, no handlers and time to linger over good food.
This time we're not just surviving the storm
of a media frenzy and the banality of the biz.

As we select our entrees, we set our course,
for a relationship we might never define.
We look in each others' eyes, questions lurking in the factoids,
yet we both simply say

Let's break bread together.