13 February 2007

i'm sorry i'm not.

there was a reason i had to be someone else
in those fishnet stockings and stacked heels for you:
there was always much more than an ocean between us.
always much more than an accent
that kept you from understanding.
i wish i could say i’m sorry.
i’m sorry i’m not. i’m sorry. i’m not.

12 February 2007

baby ears

your mouth is opening closing opening closing, but you’re just talkin at yourself, sugar. the sun is on my cheeks and I’m eating dried mangos waitin for the bus downtown.
Don’t lay your method on me, man
Sometimes I can’t tell
if the water in the faucet is getting warmer, or my fingers are just getting numb.

06 February 2007


Its my fault for
Taking your call
Late late.
Unlocking the door
Its my fault for
Letting you in.
Kissing you hard.
Against the wall.
Letting you in.

04 February 2007

The Majestic

4:30 AM.
The Majestic. My last night in America.
We order hash browns, coffee, some biscuits and apple pie. The party hadn’t been boring; we had just left before the others started to split. The four boys with me and Shy can be summed up perfectly by their names: Carlos, Eliot, Ryan, and Ben. They really embodied those names.
We had only just met them at the small, packed apartment and became fast friends with the help of a few cocktails and a joint. The Majestic is packed. Labor Day weekend. The tiles on the wall are white and yellow, or at least they are supposed to be. The waitress is too polite to be working the graveyard shift and I can tell the boys aren’t going to tip her enough already. Someone pushes someone near the cash register and all the testosterone in the room jump out of their seats. About 10 minutes later I see blue and red lights flashing in the parking lot.
The hash browns swim in their grease and ketchup and salt. Perfect for my coming down. The boys were thinking about getting laid. Shy just wants her pie, and I am thinking that this is a perfect night to be in America.
Having a sandwich in midtown, Shy and the afternoon. Back in the country again. July.
“Hey look, it’s that guy” she says. It’s Carlos. “Hey!” she calls out.
He comes over and looks a little confused, then says “hey” and sits at the table with us.
“We’ve met before, right?” I say. “The Majestic? Last year?”
“Yeah,” he says. “The Majestic. That magical night at the Majestic.”
That magical night at the Majestic.