Knobs and Switches, Break downs and Build ups,

Unlock,

Get in,

Lock,

Check the mirrors,

Check the locks,

Slide the seat,

Early,

Listen,

See,

The white lines,

See, the yellow lines,

Think,

I'm not going to die,

Know,

I'm not going to kill,

Remain,

Motionless-- for a good-- forty five,

Sign the cross,

Check again,

Buckle,

Turn,

Change,

On,

Off,

Ease,

Let,

Wait,

One,

Way.

Between these hours you can do this, you can do this, you can do this.

This is something that people do.

You're there,

See that.

It opens up like a mind, to banners, babies, brass bands, familiar hymns, and not alones.

Our hands were empty and you filled them,

Skin and Toast

Abandoned Issues,

As soon as I understood that there was a dead brother,

I became obsessed with finding him,

I must have learned about Erick

Around the same time I learned about reincarnation.

And hypocrisy.

And statistics.

Edgar Cayce.

And religious war.

Not to mention Dr. Spock and jelly jars.

Expectations drinking wine.

Charted life goals digging diamonds.

Jim dear, Darling.

Guess who’s coming?

The one’s who suffer, wrap in water,

Soft sculled best friends sharing blood banks.

Ha.

Over there.

Antique drum circles propped up sideways on mahogany buffets for decoration,

Never to be played.

Just filling a space,

For other people to look at and say,

Gee,

I sure wish that was me.

I was much older when I learned that Erick was part of the reason my parents couldn't stay.

And older still when I learned that I was part of all these reasons and swan songs.

And scoured pots and missing keys.

What do they do with their wedding rings once it’s all over?

Just rattle it around a sock drawer?

I’m sure that everyone regrets having children at some point.

I’m sure that everyone turns around and says,

Now what?

I’m sure that the hair stops growing under the band,

Like the bald ankle inside a man’s sock.

But there’s no registration at Target for the marriage of the stillborn and the born.

That role is left undefined as I am left undefined.

Holding Jem’s hand over piles of chilled bones,

I’m Scouting the trenches for possible big brother candidates.

Knowing full well I’ll never get him to stay.

I’m not searching for daddies.

I never wanted a daddy.

I could do without a mother.

And the sister’s have families of their own.

Even their very own suicide,

Immortalized quest,

And levels of wrong.

Maybe we’re all alcoholics.

But, if we’re looking for the first thing that we lost,

The first thing would have to be the blue baby with the Viking name.

And the half brothers are solid

Weighted

Gold.

I

Know.

But,

I

Want

More.

I want an older all mine

Tyrannosaurus Rex.

It’s not fair what I do to these poor innocent born people.

They’re just trying to fill out their own rabbit black holes.

I have always been guilty of loving too much.

I call it eczema,

It’s really organs worn on the outside.

I

Have

To

Say

I

Have

The

Feeling

I’m

Two

People.

I have to say it takes the wind

It takes the dog

It takes the car

(Down the stairs, and out the back, bye bye, be safe, don’t fall, don’t grow, for that)

It wears moccasins, and calls me names, and rides me home. It wets the grapes, it’s never mad.

My Heart,

Skin/Toast/Mockingbird Killed

Midterms,

I would prefer not to stay up all night.

I would prefer not to be tricked or cheated.

Just cut open my skull, see that it's all there, and show me to the dark room with the low to the ground cot, and the burlap sack.

I'm trying,

Bartleby the skin toast

Buster,

It's funny sometimes the life that spreads out over a city.

Sad how easy it is to slip by one another in the crowds,

But nice to think of us all contracting in each other's rooms at separate times.

The kitties.

Cops.

Cabbies.

Shame walks,

And

Puppy trots.

Next door aprons tied to knobs.

Marbled lobbies filled with yous.

Sticky wagon bike patrols.

Corner crushes found on bridges.

Pink haired freshman all grown up.

I like the idea of all of us rubbing up against each other

Just missing each other

Every

Time

There's a liquor store in Pilson run by cats

Well

Two

Two huge white kitties

I know that

One is named Picasso

I think that

Both are doing fine

Seem healthy enough

Not that it was ever my turn to watch them

But walking up those three weathered wooden stairs to my six pack of Tacate, my bag of limes and pack of gums, and orphaned eyes; my chest implodes a little, and my eyes puff out, and my ears buzz back down to the south side, your side.

It's just that one has some black smudges on his cheeks, and I don't know if it's dirt, or second hand smoke, or liver disease, or what. And the other one, he just cries and cries, and scrapes against the leg of who ever happens to be at the register. Like he just needs to be loved all the time. Is that so hard to understand you colorful people of Pilsen? That's what makes him different, that's his lemonade stand, that's his fifty cents.

That's to be respected

Trumpeted

Inked

On

Every

Dollar

So

That

Everyone

Knows

Love

Me

As

You

Have

Ever

Done

Or

I

Could

Circle

Round

And

Die

And the man who holds up the threshold is yelling, barking,

"Come on Picasso, cross the street! time to go! Picasso! Picasso! Picasso!"

I know that man he'll never leave.

The liquor store is dark, and carpeted, and wet. But, Picasso loud, and Picasso shy, they thrive in there like cubes of sugar soaked in instants, swirling through the blackened grounds, Entombed in water hot as hell.

And I wonder if my Buster ended up in a strip club on Lawrence.

A book store in Hyde Park.

A thrift store on Belmont.

The basement of the Chopin.

I hope that's him behind that post

But

There's my bus

Excuse

Me

Sir

I have to

Sorry

Have to

Go,

Skin and Toast

P.S. And the cop who fucked my mother, I see him everywhere.

My pores are so wide they can hold up to five days at a time

Institutions,

You get me every time.

Had a test this week that's still dripping down the middle of my chin.

I'm not as young as I once was, when I stay up all night it takes my knees forty eight hours to snap back into place.

I was in the conference room for this one.

Chairs plush and lean, like the ones they have in Germany, or Uranus.

Table wider then the bed I share.

Six open windows.

Soft light.

Door locked.

Large coffee from Dunkin Donuts with sugar only.

large bottle of smart water.

One blue book.

Two number two mechanical pencils.

Exam number one, English 2030, American Literature.

Three hours later the pages were filled with at least half right.

Hopefully more.

This semester I'd like to get my first A'.

Last semester my goal was not to get any F's.

Friend boy says he's proud of me.

Fake mom too.

In her own way, she still doesn't understand why I'm not perusing Broadway lights.

This English teacher is a new character in the series of people who correct my posture.

In the series of people who steady my breathing.

Who make me want to keep my eyes open just a little longer each day.

His name is Doctor Un Rooly.

He has leather hands, dark jackets, and two daughters.

He talks about them all the time, calls them his girls.

I put a lot of pressure on myself for this exam, because I want him to be proud of me too.

He's the spirit, I'm the flesh. Attendance is mandatory. Partial credit is given.

Me a chance,

Skin and Toast

Macaroni Neckless,

Hold on,

Just stop tilting

And going

And slipping

Fading

Cracking

Just wait.

I doubt he's packed yet,

But, my little Ajax is going north, this time, to rest a while.

Sometimes the mean kids steal his paint and string. And he gets very upset.

Sometimes he stays up ungodly late at his desk sweating and shaking, he crawls into bed, into birds, sobbing that he just can't get it. He's trying, but he'll just never get it. It's on the tip of his finger, outlined around his secret system like a deflated car tire around a second cousin's broken english, but he'll just never get it.

No, that's me.

The truth is I don't know what he's feeling, no idea.

I guess there's lots of things I'll never figure, aid, string in bands around our crown of years, and snacks, and ways we used to talk.

He has a mole under the right corner of his bottom lip, if you see him, give him a big hug for me. And give him all the things I made for him.

Purple

Green

Striped

Glued

Squeezed

Sliced

Shaved

Dyed

Sold

Slaughtered

Tried

And

Tried

And signed to bigger things like moms and pills and last resorts.

Give him a dry cloth in case the roof leaks where he's going.

Give him this Katherine Hepburn movie in case he has any questions about where I go on Monday mornings before he wakes up.

Don't go on and on about how genius he his, when he's in a state like this, that just makes things worse.

Remember he has an identical twin who's very in, and out, and proud, and on some list, and drives a car, and makes the grades, and lives with her, so, there's always that.

He likes his books on the floor, all around him, piled high in orders that skate and swivel storms of neon, reversible rage around that father we share in merciless tandems of tales.

The father who leaves him each morning in sweats on the couch.

Fine

Shrug

Week

After

Month

Purple

Green

Striped

Just make sure his colors stay separate, and give him plenty of string.

So he can find his way back.

Fix it,

Skin/Toast/Pray/Pray/Pray