I am plagued by thoughts of me without her.
They attack at my weakest, when I must be without her.

I am in awe of how losing something could make me feel so heavy;
an epiphany I could only see without her.

What is this foolish notion of a ball and chain?
I am grounded, like a broken wing, less free without her.

All others have become weeds to her rose;
I cannot imagine saying “we” without her.

This city screams through any sleep it gets,
and I, this make-believe man, would probably flee without her.

2:18 am calls from Mike Rosen because he needs to say he loves me. Now ain’t that a community worth belonging to?

rather be reading.

The more I change

the more I remain

utterly the same.

Being ok with this

is like reading a

translated poem

in its original language

and understanding

every word.

I wonder who

taught me to read

in someone else’s

skin before my own.

A Kait Rokowski feature, a four-person slam, and several drinks later...

in this moment
i am an earthquake of a man.

in the silence that follows—
before i start breathing
again— i can hear that first
crack form, rolling forward
through time.

it was several years ago.

my parents taught me that
love is doing anything for
another, being selfless.

her mother taught her that
relationships are what happens
when a selfish person tires
of being alone.

she was a car without brakes.
only stopped violently.
assumed pedestrians knew this,
that anyone standing in front
of her long enough to determine
her eye color wanted to be hit,
assumed anyone wanting to be
hit was worth getting to know

in the short time before colliding.

i thought she was only
in a hurry to meet me.

at seventeen, the thing i wanted
most was for a woman to want to
meet me; i felt so lucky.

my chest quaked in the
moments before our first
kiss, i thought it was
excitement, i know
it was a warning.

i was always happy to see her,
eager to do what she asked of me,
quick to forget her shouting at me,
rarely understood her anger with me:
i didn’t have a dog then, so i
didn’t recognize the similarities.

i forgot to bring butter to the
table, she said i was horrible
for calling her fat, asked why
i fuck everything up: i just
forgot; she’s thinner than i am.

she said my words were daggers.
if that’s the case, i never
threw them, they were just
falling out of my mouth, landing
in my feet; it could explain why
i didn’t move out of her way.

but i’m no masochist, so i took
to keeping my mouth closed, my
throat a desert.

time stretches in the seconds
before an accident; appears
to become long enough to
convince her to swerve; then
snaps back, faster than before,
like whiplash, force enough
to crack almost anything.

now,
in this moment
i am an earthquake of a man,
plagued by aftershocks.

you are everything she isn’t.
you deserve everything she didn’t,

but when something has upset you,
i can only say sorry, over
and over, a mournful yelp.

i know it must be frustrating.

i want to apologize.
you love dogs; i’m just
trying not be one. i still find
it difficult to learn new things:

my parents taught me the world
is an evil place.

she taught me it was my fault.

you are teaching me it isn’t,
that dogs deserve love,
that i walk upright,
that even if i am cracked,
it’s more like stained glass.

she taught me what it was
like to be run over.

you taught me the feeling
the passenger seat when
there are working brakes
and a steady hand behind
the wheel.

-sw

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.

my uncle is a pastor:
when i was born, he told
my mother: i see this
child doing great things.

she told me this—with
tears in her eyes—the
first time it seemed
like i had other plans.

for a born-again christian
the pastor’s word is
practically law; i don’t
know if it was her intention,
but i felt like a criminal.

I watch movie trailers compulsively; the good ones
take what is surely a flawed thing and use it to create
perfection, if only for one hundred and fifty seconds.

I find hope in that.

the day all the cell phones died
was the day after the last land-
line was removed; half the world
had never even gotten them.

once email had gotten the word out,
the news covered nothing else,
hours of guesses, the best being
that the air had become exhausted
with us, the nonsense we deemed
worthy of clogging the sky with.

we had built a tower of babel using
radio waves; thought God was just
a voice that could call you anywhere.
he said: if you want to play me, i’ll
play you and utterly ruin
something, you’d just blame
me anyway.

it was a global dead zone,
forty-seven million text messages
plummetting to earth at once,
twenty-five million voices together
asking, hello..?

it was so beautiful
he almost answered back.

the silence when i pressed send
that first time was pointed, like
fingers curled around my throat.

you & i were supposed to meet up later
that day, but manhattan might as
well have sunk into the ocean, i
couldn’t breathe, i had carried
you and everyone else in my
pocket, so close for so long
there is an indent in my thigh.
it’s now empty space.

i wanted to run through the streets
screaming your name. everyone was so
busy listening, for anything, i’m
sure you would have heard.

i didn’t think you needed me, or
couldn’t handle it; just the opposite:
i hear a lot better now,
i hear the music of your subway
car becoming an accordion,
i hear the screw loosening
on the scaffolding, i hear the
construction worker ignoring it,
i hear the quickened heartbeat
as a gun is pressed to the spot
on your forehead i kiss
each morning.

not knowing means the only thing
i haven’t heard yet is how bad it
will be.

the only thing i will never
hear is the sound of my life
without you.

. . . .

you were alright.
i was too once i knew that.

i wear a watch now, i am punctual
& precise, careful. i study maps
for the same reason you study
palms: to know where we are, where
we are going, & how to get back
home again:

home is important again.
home is where, if you wait long
enough, those whom you truly
need will always show up;
it works better than any
text message.

there are mornings you wake too early
for me to ask where you are going, to
find it on a map.

i hear terribly well on those
days. i’ve constructed a playlist
to drown the world until you
return, i will choose what music
i hear, it will be all your
favorite songs strung together,
the silences
removed.

you say: what about the day
all the ipods die?

i know.
rome wasn’t built in a day,
i’d like to think
this is something better.

i know.
i’m working on it.
i’ll call you
when i’m done,
the old-fashioned way:

with a handful of pebbles
standing beneath your window.

the day all the cell phones died
was the day after the last land-
line was removed; half the world
had never even gotten them.

the news covered nothing else,
hours of guesses, the best being
that the air had become exhausted
with us, the nonsense we deemed
worthy of clogging the sky with.

we had built a house out of radio
waves; it weighed nothing, yet
fell so heavy; it’s a good thing
we were already numb.

the silence when i pressed send
that first time was pointed, like
fingers curled around my throat.

you & i supposed to meet up later
that day, but manhattan might as
well have sunk into the ocean, i
couldn’t breathe, i had carried
you and everyone else in my
pocket, so close, in a favorite
pair of pants, but the fabric
wore through, you fell out so
softly, like melting snowflakes.

i wanted to run through the streets
screaming your name. everyone was so
busy listening, for anything, i’m
sure you would have heard.

i didn’t think you needed me, or
couldn’t handle it; just the opposite:
i heard a lot better now,
heard the bark of rabid dogs,
heard the tightening grip on
the butt of a gun, heard the
screw loosening on the
scaffolding, heard the construction
worker ignoring it.

not knowing means the only thing
you haven’t heard yet is how bad it
will be.

. . . .

you were alright.
i was too once i knew that.

i wear a watch now, am punctual
& precise, careful. i study maps
for the same reason you study
palms: to know where we are & where
we are going. you find it endearing,
the way a stumbling toddler is:
struggling, but still moving forward.

there are days you wake early
to leave before i ask where
to? i find it endearing,
the way a devoted schoolteacher
is: hopeful, with far too few reasons
to be.

i know it is because you want me
lewis & clark fearless; you want
me evel knievel willing.

you want me able to stand on a
street corner, know that you are
somewhere, standing on a street
corner, & not need to send a
message to space & back just
to be ok:

i should just know it.`
i am working on it.
i will call you
when i am done,
the old-fashioned way:

with a handful of pebbles,
beneath your window.

-sw