the following includes a poem that is so much more prose than poetry, and that is so much more fiction than truth.
songs
. dear wormwood . the oh hellow
. every goliath has its david . the boy least likely
. something better . hidinin
. we're gonna be alright . the runaway club
. don't swallow the cap . the national
. soldier in the army . steel train
. over and over . smallpool
cultivate (v): 1. prepare and use (land) for crops or gardening, raise or grow (plants), especially on a large scale for commercial purposes, grow or maintain (living cell or tissue) in culture 2. try to acquire or develop (a quality, sentiment, or skill), apply oneself to improving or developing (one's mind or manners)
red roses
my darling, loving you is fascinating.
my darkling, loving you is stunning.
my darling, loving you is brilliant, gripping, imaginative, inspiring.
my darling, loving you is a play in 5 acts.
act i: the right atrium.
i have to stand on my tippy toes to see you over the shelf of sunscreen. our eyes meet as i'm stocking bottles of brightly coloured sun protection, your face framed between coppertone and aveeno. you smile at me and ask when i get off. i tell you 5:30 and ask when you do. you tell me that i'm lucky and you're working till midnight. a customer approaches and your eyes break from mine to ask how they're doing and if they'd like a bag for that. i fill the space your eyes occupied with bottles of SPF 50.
act ii: the right ventricle.
we are sat talking about how much we both love this city, you because you've never known anything else, and me because I have. you tell me about the diversity this city has to offer, and i tell you that i'm too new to this town to know its nuances. you remark that someday we should go driving and you can show me everything that makes this city unique for you. i tell you that i'd like that. you make good on your word.
act iii: the lungs.
i find myself sat passenger in your beaten up toyota that has probably seen more than either of us have, and tame impala plays on the radio and i'm taking boomerangs of all the city lasks and you're asking what i'm doing so at a red light i show you what i've taken. you tell me that i'm talented, and that my wonderment is contagious. i begin to take boomerangs of you, all the city lights basking you in a soft glow, giggling as you berate me for distracting you.
act iv: the left atrium.
one night you tell me that you want to run out to get some groceries, drop them off at home, and then drive out to stanley park and catch the lights over the mountain. you ask if that's okay. i tell you that it's fine, as long as i can take boomerangs of you at the supermarket too. you laugh, say it's okay, and we go. you push me around in the cart and i get so many boomerangs of you laughing, over and over, it seems, infinitely. i realize in this moment that i want to see you laughing infinitely. i realize shortly after that i want to see you infinitely.
act v: the left ventricle.
we approach your house and suddenly you are very timid. you tell me that your parents mean well, but that they ask questions. and you tell me that i will probably not know how to answer them. you tell me this is fine, that you won't be gone long, just have to grab your camera from your room and then you'll come save me from the interrogation at hand. i laugh at your trepidation and ask if your family's full of cops. no, you say, military. i tell you i'll be fine, and how bad could they really be, and we head up the little driveway, groceries in hand. i help your parents put things away, rather clumsily, and the questions start. they begin by asking things like how long we've known each other, how we met, and i answer these questions politely and with detail. next, they ask where you've taken me on these little adventures, and i tell them about stanley park, the city lights, and i show them the boomerangs. they tell me that i have an eye for composition. i tell them it's just about capturing the moment as it feels, not as it appears. we come across boomerangs of you, and they tell me you look so happy. i tell that that it's beautiful, and isn't it? you smile and laugh and look at me infinitely in these little playbacks, illuminated by city lights and the glow of headlights, or streetlamps, or your own happy smile when it's dark outside. they tell me that you've spoken about me, my writing, my love of star wars, my interest in game theory. you enter the room and tell me that they they're being difficult, and shushes their inquiries. we leave, politely, with a "it was nice to meet you" and a "come 'round anytime" and a "love you" "love you more". you apologize for them the minute we close the car doors. i tell you that it is okay. i tell you that i'm a poet, despite the fact that you already know. i tell you that i am bogged down with metaphors, despite the fact that you already know. and i tell you as honest as i can how okay that was, despite the fact that on some level, you already know. because how do you tell someone that they taught you to look at a seed and see a flower. how do you convey these sorts of things without elaborate metaphor, and moreover how do you do it accurately?
i realize here, backlit by the porch lights of your childhood home that coexisting with you is as natural as blood in my veins, as beautiful and as raw as the dew that grazes red rose petals at the break of dawn. i try to tell you this. i continue to try to tell you this, it seems, infinitely.
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