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| Dendrochronology
Every year that a tree lives, it forms a new pair of rings. When a horizontal cross-section of a tree is taken, botanists can determine characteristics of the tree's annual environment, solely based on variations in these rings. During years of drought, the rings become thinner. When an abundance of materials that support plant life are present, however, the rings become thicker.
If I were a tree, today I would get my 19th ring.
I can't decide if this years ring was thicker or thinner than the previous.
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| I fucked up tonight
I'm drunk and I'm half naked,
in a dirty-cop costume
And I fucked up tonight.
I left my house past curfew
out my window around midnight,
in a midnight-blue Honda Civic,
get-away car.
Or was it an Accord?
I'm not completely sure.
I went to a party, on Center street and
I spoke dirty-French with all the
gens francaises
and downed uncountable shots because I was
"cool."
At least, until
I lost my cool,
because Home was calling,
and because my Mom was crying,
and because my step-dad was hollering about
how much of a fuck-up I am
as I made the walk-of shame
back through the front door.
But like he can talk about anyone having a
"problem", anyway.
Motherfucker!
I think "projection" is
the term most suitable, for now.
But, whatever,
I'm eighteen, I do what I want...
right?
Sure...
I do what I want,
and naturally,
that means I'm doing the "wrong" thing
at the "wrong" time, and at the "wrong" place
with the "wrong crowd";
ironically the only crowd that I've ever felt
"right" with.
But it's not about them at all.
And it's a not about the drinks
or the drugs
or the shit I get myself into,
It's all about what I said the last time this happened;
those words forged from desire.
And you know damn well what I'm talking about.
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| MigrationI woke up Saturday morning, and something was different.
Blood stained my pillowcase where only tears used to dry.
"Rough night?", I wondered. But, I could not remember.
And because I could not remember, I then assumed "Yes."
I raked my bangs behind my left ear, allowing my eyes to adjust before I rose to face a mirror. I focused on My Reflection and interrogated him for clues about the night before. He said nothing. And, I noticed no more.
It was Saturday morning, so I went back to bed.
I tossed and turned the same way I had for the past three nights,
half drunk, and half awake, and crying, after hours spent tracing our evolution through old e-mails.
And then I stretched, and yawned, and dried my eyes.
And then I felt it; it was empty; and suddenly I knew what was missing.
They told me that it would last longer than this. It had roughly been six months.
Six months, and I'd nearly forgotten completely.
Something that was a part of me, that I felt would be relatively permanent, was no longer there.
I glanced back towards my bed and found my barbell, one of the clear balls missing from its ends.
They said that my body would push it out when the time came. They called it migration. Sometimes I wonder if it was the same with you. Because, truth is, I lost a lot more Saturday morning. Something else I felt was a part of me and relatively permanent. But, like my piercing, maybe it was your time too.
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| Driftwood
My cold arms dangle from the edge of my queen-sized bed
like the cobwebs cast across the corners of the walls
that I've spent most of the afternoon staring so blankly into,
thoughts floating in my head
like driftwood;
searching for spots where the paint has chipped
and where beads of red acrylic once ran,
while skipping over tack holes
that used to hold our pictures up:
a (failed) attempt to forget the day at the river
when my cold arms dangled from a swing, instead,
as we watched the Sun hover just above The Arkansas.
I brought you there to talk,
but I didn't have much to say to you
other than "I don't know what to say to you."
So, instead, we talked about the weather,
and school, and a lonely fisherman--
that neither of us recognized-- walking along the shore,
as you fumbled through a collection of
embarassing albums strewn across my back seat,
while admiring the shirt I was wearing
(which I only bought because it reminded me of you).
Then the lock sent an interrupting alarm that the water would rise soon,
so we turned to watch a barge grow taller than the horizon
and eventually float south with the current,
until the trail of waves behind it settled.
And the lonely fisherman sitting over on the bank
reeled faster then.
We wondered if he caught something;
at least something other than
driftwood.
Or if he was just like us--
wasting time and casting out,
throwin' back the little guys, until bigger fish come along.
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| Alpha Male? Please.
Grab a few more from the shelf,
then proceed to leave yourself
in the trash with the aluminum.
The next part, you don't even need to tell me,
'cause I know it word for word:
"I swear, I haven't had too much."
Well, I don't care, I've had enough
of your "I'm a tough guy," tough guy shit,
'cause that's not the way it really is,
bud.
And, don't make this fed up,
corn-fed boy from the south show you.
'Sure, you may be a foot closer to the clouds and twice my size,
but these fists well help you see more than your eyes
ever will.
Trust!
Lookin' through beer-goggles
will never be as clear
as the place you'll wake up next.
There will be plenty of light there.
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