when i die.

soft comforters and fluffy pillows have been put in place to ease the falls. and rules have been set to limit the experience. i've run through the alleys of tucson drank hot tea on the upper east side of new york city and swam in two of the world's oceans. i know how and why people are people pass through life in a cozy, comfortable, stifling state.
it's not for me.

i do not want, nor do i seek a comfortable life.
i buy old cars because i enjoy the bumps in the road.

i want to do more than breathe - reproduce - die.

i do not want to go gentle into that good night with smooth skin and no regrets.

i want to die cursing the sun from a park bench with bread crumbs in my left hand, and a walking cane in my right. i want to scream at those who walk by as drool falls from my lip.
i want them to say "look at that old man. that's sad. he's talking to himself."

i will hear them and spit back:

"you are the ones who hated every moment you spent at your job. you are the ones who fueled the petty arguments with your husbands and wives. it was you broke your back to fulfill a dream you didn't even conceive. you who softly whispered 'no' when your soul screamed 'yes,' are said. the wind wishes it was as free as i have become. the sun and i share secrets the night will never hear."

and i will sit back on my bench and hope those sad folks will drop a dime into my cup.

the one i like.

she asked me: 'what kind of girl you like?'

i laughed and mimicked helen keller.
i wanted her to ask again, but this time giving me some kind of sing that it was really a selfish question.

this time i needed her to ask: 'what is it about me that you like?'
but she didn't. she repeated the original question.

i wanted to tell her about all my failed relationships
and how in each of those i chose the girl for the wrong reason.

i didn't need an 'awww'
i just want her to believe in fate and believe that each of those failed relationships let me down a path that forked here.

shit like that only happens in movies with white folks.

i needed a 'thorough bitch.'
an 'adapt in any borough bitch.'
-biggie smalls.

i want to stand on a dance floor
unable to hear her
but watching her lips move to every word of jay-z's 'party life.'

i want to be able to hit her with a pillow during an argument
then all her a nigga and we both laugh cause we know the argument is stupid.

while eating from the wendy's dollar menu we'd come up with jokes about each others mother.
of course mine would be funnier, so i'd joke her about her lameness.

i want to fart under covers and blame her while holding her head under here until the smell disappears.

we're standing on the corner blowing heat into our hands, drinking from green and white cups, thinking of the places we were warm last, talking about this woman i'd like to find.

so i stood there remembering my theories on fantasies.
some should remain just that: a fantasy.
they keep us hoping. keep us believing.

when they become real, we have to deal with the real.
the bullshit that comes along with 'real.'

and i realized these were all thoughts.
i had said nothing.
her question had not been answered.
and my hands were freezing.

'i'll buy you a hot chocolate' she said.

'thanks. i'd like that.'

saving my tears

i'm saving my tears for november.
at night i tuck them behind my eyelids.
no one watches me sleep - so i feel safe.

i've hidden my tears in old buckets on porches no one knows exist.
porches only hold sentimental value and potted plants and occasionally glass pitchers filled with lemonade.

i haven't seen them in 6 years
but i know they exist
because i still do.

i've left a few sobs on curbs
and a few sighs on bridges.

i'm saving my tears for november.
when the sun performs its magic i put my tears in my coat pocket to keep them from drying.

my feet hurt and the lights are too bright.
and my eyes are swelling beyond belief.
and 6 more days to go.

i'm saving my tears for november
in case no one cries for me.

sometimes at 6am

we're not always wide awake at 6am.
we walk across the room to turn off the alarm with our eyes slightly closed still, attempting to hold on to that small piece of sleep.
the bathroom linoleum is cold on our soles and the steam from the hot shower water doesn't seem to spread fast enough.

get in.

we wash away the funk we collected in our dreams and the small traces of lent we collected on our foreheads, pressing our palms against the wall, allowing the thousands of beads of water to race down my back.

the lotions, body sprays, colognes and perfumes keep us breathing down each other's neck while attempting to eat our cream of wheat.

this morning i dreamt of us going deaf.
i think because i love writing you so much.

so i wrote you a letter.
and while we stood on the platform waiting for our train to arrive i slipped it into your purse hoping you'd find it while looking for jolly ranchers.
and i would be right beside you smiling, looking the other direction to keep from looking like the suspect.

at 5:58am i want to board the the train with you, hoping we'd find a cart to ourselves.
we do.

i want to spread the newspaper all over the table and read nothing but the happy sections, because 6am should not be a time for sadness.

your eyes close slightly while i read you the story of the little girl who chased her fishing pole into the deep waters, got carried down stream by the rough waters, but lived because she promised her daddy she'd bake him a cake when they finished fishing, and she had to fulfill that promise.

your head falls back slightly, and i soften the fall with my cheek.
i'm sure your eyes are closed and your dreams are great.

i write on an old receipt i find in my wallet:

"dream of me."

and place it in your coat pocket.

sometimes at 6am we're not always wide awake.

i missed my stop - and her

so last night i missed my stop.

i sat across from the tired mother in her nursing uniform and her three year old daughter who seemed to be wide awake for the 5am A-Train downtown from harlem.

i thought about everything.
i thought about how great the day would have been had i opened my eyes this morning and she was snoring lightly beside me, smelling like cucumber melon shower gel and vanilla body spray.

i thought about how slow this train was, and how little i cared because i had nothing to do when i got home or no one to tell about the pretty little girl across from me who kept plucking her half-sleeping mother's kneecaps then looking at me for a laugh.

i smiled.

in a 45 second nod i dreamt of the one i've been thinking about all day.
we sat quiet on a couch, smiling.
she'd look at me when i turned my head to look out of the window
but i could see her staring.
she wanted to kiss.

so did i.
i turned from the window and her eyes shot to my tightly tied sneakers and not-so-skinny jeans.

i kissed her hard.
i kissed her to let him know she'd never have to ask 'how do you feel about me?'
i kissed her because i needed her to feel where i was coming from when i said 'i'm really feeling you.'

she kissed me back.

i woke up craving a red starburst from the blue pack.
the conductor announced my stop was next.

i pulled the pack of juicy deliciousness from my bag.
(yes...juicy deliciousness)

i chewed fast.
this was the taste on her lips when i drove eight hours to find out for the first time.

this is why i craved the blue pack of starbursts from time to time.

the little hand of the little black girl across from me stopped plucking her mother's knee and began reaching out for what i had.

i gave her the purple one
and began telling her all about boys and which ones to look out for.
her mother would smile between her eyes cracking open slightly.

i told her:

'one day you will find yourself speeding down some major u.s. highway hoping that your phone's battery survives the distance, because once you arrive at your destination you will want to call him and let him know you're outside.'

she sat there with a sticky chin, but focused.
this little black girl was funny.

i told her:

'someday you will smack yourself and cringe with shame because you didn't really want to put all of your emotions out there to be left vulnerable.'

she laughed.

i finished:

'never enter a relationship with used emotional baggage. buy new.'

she giggled with no clue what was being said.
kids have always been my best audience.

the train began slowing.
i pocketed my starbursts and stood up.

the little hand of the little black girl stretched further and she giggled:

'one more please.'

i put one in her hand and one on her mother's lap so she'd smile when she opened her eyes.

the train stopped.

what would 5am feel like holding her hand? to stand waiting for the stop, her holding on to my neck while i grab the pole to keep from falling hard.

in the few seconds that passed i missed everything.
falling on the bed kissing.
staring out of the window holding on to her pinky.
her.

the sleeping mother opened her eyes and smiled when the doors opened.
she said:

'someday - when she grows up...
she's going to fall in love with men just like you
and not know why.
but i will'

the door shut.
i missed my stop.

i wondered what the sun was doing.

so last night i missed my stop.

let us fall this autumn

i've thought about dropping my bed off at the dumpster and stopping by the consignment shop and picking up the twin size mattress and sitting it on cinder blocks and wooden slats so i could sleep tight this winter - breathing into her neck.

this autumn will not allow that to happen.

this autumn finds me sitting low in crimson, leather seats - eyes slightly above the steering wheel.
fingertips slightly gripping below.
the nights have never been so crisp.
the air has never tasted so welcoming.
it's as though it showered before my arrival.

and she stands there blowing from her lungs what she grew up believing was smoke -
wanting to say to the girl closest to her "i can see my breath."
but they aren't friends.

the starbucks cup and p-coat reminds her that warmth did and does exist.
the sky's attempt at darkness brings her memories of summer sit-downs on park benches and piers after hours of shopping for lip gloss - shoes and scarves for the coming winter.

the scarf around her neck reminds her of his impersonation of her muslim mother who wore scarves to the market because the owner would always comment on her beauty in scarves and give her the discount he saw fit.

she stood there alone.

my lungs inhaled what was left of the cologne sprayed on my white t.
my lungs exhaled the chorus of an old otis redding song:

'i've got dreams to remember'

the cold is here.
she feels it.
i feel it.

i want to sit low beneath goose down comforters with her - eating plantain chips and chocolate chip bread pudding with coconut ice cream - listening to sade depress the shit out of both of us.

i want to frequent malls with her, visiting every store - vowing to never shop with her again - carrying all eight of her bags to the car when it's over.

i want to fall in 'like' this autumn, pushing her down in a pile of leaves - then letter her catch me just to see what her revenge will be.

i want to fall in love this winter watching her read through the newest 'vogue,' and 'elle' while sitting on the counter - heat on 95 degrees, salads on plates, dressing on the side - and neither of us hungry because we've filled up kissing.

this autumn, though, finds me sitting low, in crimson, leather seats watching her waiting for him - not me.
and remembering what i hope is to one day be.

i unlock my door for the woman currently waiting on permit to occupy the right side of my queen.
i exhaled on an old sade joint:

'when i lay eyes on you'