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.