The bus rides on the 265 and the sliding

back-and-forth from one grocery trip

to the next. The raincoats in Dublin.

The Halloween nights at Five Guys

where we ate so many fries

one of us puked outside the Froebel dorm.

The trips to Heathrow, the stop-and-go

tube rides and giving our seats to priests

when it was hot and we didn’t want

good men to stand. The Oyster cards

hard in our hands when we’d forget

where they were. The waffles in Amsterdam

dripping with red light.

That Edinburgh night when we drank

so much that we felt lost right in front

of the Castle Rock hostel. The filthy cheeseburgers.

The mushy peas, how we wondered in Oxford

how much meat you could fit into a pie.

The top of the Eiffel being much less impressive

than we thought it would be, but

it was nothing. Not like everything else.

in the dog of summer

when it’s time to clean

the kitchen sink i pour you

on my sponge.

we scrub together in bubbly

melodies. there’s nothing

quite like your toxic perfume

–how it reminds me

of my grandmother’s pantry—

warming up my nose.

and the parties we host!

all the balloon-lungs we air up

and the hawaiian punch

we wipe off shirts.

i love how white

you make the dark,

how your clear stream

streaks the pollock-stains

straight off the canvas.

and your blankness!

oh the things you could rebirth

if we let you:

spilt supernovas in the sky,

all my bad nights.

oh how i wish to drink you—

but only sometimes!

I.

In college, I took a figure drawing class.

I was, at the time, a decent sketch artist,

and it was spring quarter and the class

was in the evening; I liked to walk the

campus at that time of day, when it

was less crowded, less hectic, less hectoring.

I was prepared with charcoal, pencils, 

all the accoutrements of the artist.

Still life: bowl of fruit; vase and flower;

components of a disassembled pocket watch.

The final project was a series of nudes. 

One evening, we walked into the classroom

studio to find a woman in a silk kimono 

standing on a platform in the middle of the room,

our easels arranged in a circle around her.

At the teacher's signal, the kimono slid off 

and she stood, nude, unmoving for an hour

as we drew her. I was displeased with my work;

on my page, she was angular and gormless. 

I went back to my room and placed an ad for a model;

the next day I met a girl for coffee. She had answered

the ad. She was a freshman at the community college

in the same town. She was tall and slim,

Israeli: olive-skinned, black haired, hazel eyed.

In short lovely, and just the sort of girl I would not

be opposed to seeing naked for an hour. 

We made our arrangements and met at the appointed 

time at the studio. 

She had the body of a soldier: lean, taut, ready.

She was flat chested and had a great black cloud

of thick pubic hair. She posed, and I drew her

from every angle. I shaded her inner thighs,

her sides, under her breasts. Her cheekbones,

the notch of her collarbone, every detail

of her I made sure to capture, to trove away;

this was not for anyone's eyes but mine, I realized

as I sketched her thigh. 

I made several good drawings of her, gave her one, 

gave her the agreed sum, and wished her well

in her studies. I wanted to sleep with her, 

but I knew after I would rip her drawings in half.

II.

Awkwardly I asked a friend to pose.

I needed a male model for the portfolio,

and the overweight, balding yet congenial

mechanic who had come to the classroom

had been turned unsightly by my pencils.

I began to wonder if I were only able to draw

the beautiful in any manner of realness.

My friend was handsome, he looked like 

he had aged out of a boy band, and was not

offended or otherwise put off by my request.

He stood still, lean and pale and uncircumcised,

as I drew him from one angle only, rushing through

the hour, yet managing to capture the shyness

of his pose, the embarrassment and the thrill.

After, we went and got drunk at a party

and I told the girl he was flirting with that I had

just spend an hour with him naked.

III.

That summer, I posed nude.

The Israeli girl called me out of the blue,

asking to return the favor. I was nervous, but

agreed. It was to be, she said, for her whole class,

and my nervousness compounded, but the

exhibitionist in me prevailed. The classroom was 

small, there were only seven students, arrayed

in a tight circle around a slightly raised platform.

I stood, in undershorts, my clothes in a pile on

an unused desk. Most of the students were older

women, finally taking that night course they had always 

been talking about. At a sign, I slid my shorts off and 

stepped out of them, my eyes going to the Israeli girl

without meaning to. I was well-made, I had heard

and believed it. I listened to the scratching of the

nubs on the paper, the rubbing of erasers, the 

occasional clearing of a throat. I had left shyness

behind as a boy's curse, I had resolved to be more

true and more myself; I stood, telling myself

I was liberated now from self hate and worry,

that because they could see all of me, they would

would not judge me. I dressed in the bathroom;

when I came back in, the Israeli girl showed me

her drawing. It was, I admit, an excellent likeness.

We went for coffee again, and she made a joke about

how we had both seen each other naked but never touched,

I shook her hand professionally, and said There, and she

laughed for some reason. She stood to go and

leaned over the table to kiss my cheek, and then

she walked away. 

A month later, she mailed me an index-card sized version

of her drawing and a letter that said she was going back

to Israel, that she had gotten a four-point on her

portfolio, and thanking me. 

That night, I set the drawing of me side by side

with one of the ones I had kept of her

and jerked off all over myself.

I also got a four-point on my portfolio.

cold.

anger.

white.

the ceiling shouts metaphors as our bodies tangle together

carpet burns melt into stifled moans

i can't see past your hair anymore.

your voice is my dulcet muse

jesus would be wasted on you

who needs a star in the sky when i have one right here?

oh god oh god oh god oh god.

we are cliched voices; pounding against the the walls of the world.

twitching memories and trembling souls

virgin and crazy lying soaked in ourselves.

i think your eyes are where he hid that fucking apple.

scars

skin

contented sighs and writhing breaths

you are my original sin

you are my second coming

i am lying here in rusted moments

mangled in your religion.

Desert. Pint. 11:13 p.m.

right now in Barcelona

I'd be doing the same shit

or in Rome

or in Buckeye

the wait transcends

space and time and

ocean

but nobody does it

like they do it in

in the desert

sitting here outside of

it all

outside of the writing

the next book

the next hustle

all the next bullshit

sipping a Kilt Lifter

bonus lime wedges

from the belly shirt

and ass behind the bar

while outside the

moon burns white

above the mountains

drinking to forget

what I haven't done

or will never do

all the precious normality

I admire and despise

the constant condition

the constant weight

and lightness

the constant ghost

the hidden laughing bruise

the sick and tired prostration

before a night slowly wrapping

around us

a lotus dream before

the grip

sitting here at the bar

frontal lobe toggled

head change coming

the tapping in

mystery reopens

as the night moves

across the desert

winding and watching

the dirt and rock

and the grace of

moonlight

burning white

and shining

down

on all of this.

Nothing’s been the same since you

died

no matter how I slice it

no matter how I see it

no matter how much time attempts some bullshit move to heal it

You were in my blood and you will stay in my

blood

until my blood stops

and dries

your love and roots and every

bit of fur haunt me

no matter where I run

no matter which continent

or bar or highway

your little ghost

sits, sleeps, rides shotgun

your eyes the faintest of blue

looking wise in the sunshine

across the parks and ponds and lakes

and coasts

your little heart beating big enough

for my own

your belly against my palm

in all those shitty rooms

in shitty towns

or in the beds of

shitty women

you always knew I had

guts when nobody else

did

and you always knew I’d

pull us up and out of anywhere

we despised

closer to me than any human

will get

deeper under my skin than

my own bones

so far into my heart you’re still

the center

and though

your daddy was in jail

when you had to die

and though I don’t believe

in angels or anything beyond

carbon

you came to see me the first night

you were gone

and I held you on the slab in

the cell and fell asleep with my

hand on your stomach one last time

before you went off

to do something greater

than I could ever imagine

I want to take this afternoon

to tell you that I love you more than

anything

and no sacrifice I’ve ever made

to keep you

could hold a candle to how much

I still love you

six years past your

death

and I want to tell you here

that because of you

I know what unconditional love means

and if you were here now

I’d buy you the best of everything

even though you wouldn’t have

any idea what that means

but your little brother is almost

eleven now,

and he’s happy

and I still talk about you

and his tail still wags at the mention

of your name

and there’s even a little

girl in the mix now

she looks something like you

which is why she’s here

and while it’s true she doesn’t have your

shrewd, moody genius

I know you’d be proud that

I gave her a home

and on days like this

when the whiskey’s half gone

and I’m lost out on the road

while I wait for things to come through

while I cross my fingers and hope

things start to make sense

while I wait for the spines and brains around

me to grow

while tricky assholes have

siphoned my money

while I either do or do not

wait for eminent failure

or success

the Sun sits high and warm

and shines a beautiful

orange across the desert

while I sit in a hotel and

drink whiskey

to disappear back into

the days when you were

here

when I was alive

and we watched each other

swim

anywhere we chose

to swim

and while I’m sitting here

drunk

and staring into

darkness

I want to take this

moment

to tell you

I still love you.

Pedaling Old Town

lean back and pull up on the bars

five stair drop

-easy-

let the coffee course

and your beard go white

fuck the rules of them

their candy ass bullshit

if you contrast your blood with

their copulation and debt

you will only suffer

like they do

the only division being

your awareness

and while life

is not a contrast

keep an eye away

from those who

don't tread

deep water

but right now

fuck them

pedal, sweat

and think of

Nabokov, botany

roll past the

young ass and

flowers and find that

perfect spot

red brick bar outside

blasting Ozzy

lean the bike

and order the

Jack Coke

talk to your waiter

about Rome

about catacombs

or Chicago

your life in a hotel room

while you drive the States,

pause for a week

to

live again.

Back out here

in the wind

ignore writers who

bitch about age

it's all bullshit

their bullshit

keep your body lean

keep drinking

keep the fire in

your eyes

and the sex

sexy

the rest is there

only to pull you

down

by

their weak

grip.

Mixer in the afternoon

alright, on my third

but outside the Sun is frying

everything in its touch

everything regarding the city suffers

a famous, commercial writer once said

never place your desk in front of a window

sitting here now in the early afternoon

frontal lobe joggled just enough

head change

ice at the bottom of a glass

sings as sweetly as Simone with

the right timing

watching the tip of the mountain

burn from my window while I write

take advice from no one

if it goes against your gut

ignore and avoid kept men

with soft hands

in weak imitation of the greats

ignore their cries for attention

and self-promotion

while they use age as a gauge for

wisdom while their

wives fold their clothes for them

in the next room

which overlooks a tiled den

and a gorgeous yard

ignore the bullshit

to simply survive is not enough

while outside the mountain burns

and your words hit the page

with force

the reward is doing it

the reward is in the lift of heart

those of us who have made a living off

the writing will tell you it’s

a long and brutal fucker of a climb

but a climb with each second worth

more than a life

avoid the circles of trash, stench, and low-flying resilience

aspire to money for contentment

but be driven by neither

accept to banish

abolish to embrace

don’t place faith in

the existence of things you

cannot see

but place it in things

you know must be there

laugh at the sorrow

while the sorrow eats you

and outside the mountain burns

and sheds rocks like tears

the Sun disfigures dream

the life of us gripped

in the fist

of our own surrender

of fear

but spiked with moments

of unfathomable joy

of moments combined

in memory

that becomes our fortress and gate

our Mars and Pompeii

our sunlight, Liszt, and metal

our poets, singers, thespians, and

criminals of war

all the love inside

trapped but burning

beneath all the anger, waiting

beneath the unfathomed greatness

built in

moment to moment

the buzz gripping the mind

the time running out in this poem

before I start sounding like one of them

and feeling the oddly warm comfort

when you become what you despise

sitting here in the early afternoon

the dead men on my shelves

the dead women on my shelves

the dead-eye stare of a mountain

on fire

weeping across the desert west to

California

where I know beauty

must be waiting

while I sit here writing

ugly in desert

officially drunk

while the mountain burns

and laughs

at my stupid

fucking

face.

The most perfect sound was

the song of our feet meeting each step

down to the bricks

and up to the streets

and if you checked on me

you probably would know how 

every echo was touching me

and holding me here.

We wear black and have brown hair,

we like that almond liqueur and we

believe in this city.