Traffic

Red brake lights like a far stretching sea. I reach out with one hand still on the wheel and fetch my cell phone. I type thoughts between periods of acceleration, enter reminders for dates and times.

Notifications for days.

This drive is going to take days, and not like the good kind of days. The days where you enter two states and leave three. The kind of days that hours can feel like, only attempting to travel from point a to point b. A hardly noticeable forty miles. Except now that forty miles feels like the length of the Mojave desert, standing atop one if it’s spiny, jagged mountains to survey it’s whole. But this isn’t a mountain, it’s an overpass; the interstate stretches South. For days.

Dear Pepita

Dear Pepita, I’ve stopped writing you love letters in my head. Mostly because this isn’t love. This is being used. So much so that I doubt I’ve ever been used before. I’ve taken back, apologized, and asked for forgiveness from the people I thought had done so before you came strolling so confidently into my life. I have nothing left to say, because if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Maybe that’s why I have been so quiet. Maybe that’s why I’m allowing you your space. Because the words that form on my tongue are venom, swallowed back down to fester in my stomach and be digested. The acids in my gut breaking down sounds and syllables, letters and feelings too strong to let loose upon the drying summer earth.

Now I understand that my dreams, prophetic as they are, are scrambled warnings. Puzzles building and unraveling in my head like poorly knit socks. Comfortable as they may be, they’re still going to fall apart.

Seattle Solo

I was standing in the rain with a gin and tonic in my hand when it hits me. It’s strange to be here without her. Continued drags of cancer while wet sloppy drops fall on my head. My last three visits to Seattle spent here were with Pepita. All three with visits to Kremwork. The first when I met her at this strange basement full of queens, queers, and transgender, gender neutral, non gender, etc people, humans, whatever. The second to see her again, six months later. Sleeping in a tent for three nights only an hour from the city. Then the last four months further on from that which felt like an eternity of waiting. Driving north with Squid to meet her at the airport, our romance in full swing, her then returning from India and our ideas and aspirations manifesting in parallel.

But now I’m here alone, the crazy spin work hurricane of my drag queen friends in full motion around me. Mentally recording conversation in what seems a totally new tongue I’ve yet to decide fully. Stepping in and out of the venue watching an ever evolving alien world breathe from a strange outside perspective.

May, 2017

Is this the love story I’ll be telling

Days in and nights out?

Not – we were entwined and then she left.

But – we hardly met and then we were.

Here, there, everywhere.

Is this the love story we will always talk about, quiet nights in bed. Entwined. Her dark skin soft against my pale calloused soul, self. Bone and skin stretched tight.

She says I love you; I believe her.

Because I love her as well.

Wooden chair, two.

She is gone and I sit in the wooden chair by the sliding glass door.

Thinking, mulling over which steps come next. Lease, Pepita, Squid, home, home.

There is no laundry to drown out my thoughts.

That hurricane named Andrew, that rattled a place I’ve only briefly been.

1986, the year I was also born. The year that hurricane and myself were brought to life.

But it faded with its damage, that wild storm.

While I sit, spin, stagger, and breath on.

Sitting in my wooden chair.

March, 2017

To feel like a welcome mat that sees the seasons, but never any care or cleaning.

To feel feet pressed and released as people tread over.

Whatever, whatever may come. With April showers come may flowers.

Have a nice trip. See you next fall.

Forty Nine : Pensive

Three years ago I would wake up with Squid pressed up against me, the two of us wrapped up in blankets, to clamber out of bed for work, or to make coffee while cleaning and preparing food for the night or day, or whenever. I’d commute to work, spend my day working for someone else, and then return home to continue whatever work hadn’t been finished that morning or the evening before.

Now I wake up with Squid pressed against Pepita, her figure close, but not pressed up against me. I clamber out of bed for work, or on days off lay close, sometimes pressed against each other to eventually roll out of bed. Prepare coffee or make the trip to the dispensary, free coffee and a joint to return home and light a candle, light the joint, and sit in the dining room with music low to fill the silence that sits like a layer of dust, but hanging just above our heads. I sit in my wooden chair and watch the clouds move out the sliding glass door, past her face, smiling at me.

“You centaur” She says with a grin spreading from ear to ear.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re like a centaur sometimes, with your face, and the beard….”

“Give me a word to describe it.”

“Centaur.”

“No, like concentrated? Or maybe Stern?”

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

“Pensive?” I find the definition.
“Engaged in, involving, or reflecting deep or serious thought.”

“Totally, that’s spot on.”

I smile and return to the screen before me, thinking of Ally Sheedy.
“Andrew sits pensive in his chair.”

Yes, I do.