InsidersWe used to have this littlejoke between us, you and I:'How are you?' you would say,And I would answer, peas in a pod,'This minute, this breath, this heartbeat?I'm fine, I'm just fine.'And we would move on to other things,But you never forgot, and neither did IAnd your fingers are plaited together just like my hairas you look at me like you're afraid of what I'll doto myself'How are you?' you say, waiting for mycooperation, the fulfilling of my designated role.Peas in a pod, dime a dozen, perfectly timed comes the clue:'This minute, this breath, this heartbeat?I'm fine' I say'I'm just fine.'
A mathematical approachThis was the questionyou asked me'How do you become happy?What is it, exactly, that makes one'seyes light up?'Well I,I wrapped my mathematical mind about itTheorized factors, constant or fleetingProviding life-long pleasure orfalling flat with timeAnd thatwould bring about a big journeya search for better daysIn which the determination to make a big-or-little change isD = 0,6U 13Fwith U = unhappiness and F = fear(but this is just hypothetical because variable fear's uniquely crippling)with maybe some other variables likeS = supportive friends and B = backboneMaybeit's all the little thingswe don't take into accountLike the bouquet of peonies of my desksticking thick scenting flowers in my nostrilsOr just waking up and thinking hey, look,the sky looks beautiful todayMaybeit was a bit different fromjust finding xafter all(secretly, don't tell, I pretended I could read the following
Let the words flowI am losing my grip on wordsEven now, my fingers hesitateat half-formed sentences that seem likea chore to finish, instead of a pleasureCompleting the last stitchestying the last knot of the latestpatchwork-poemsuddenly makes for much less satisfactionAnd my normally almost-empty penis now overflowing with too-much inkCreating ugly splotches on the starved paperthat greedily soaks up my mistakesin deprivation of proper wonder-wordsPlease, pleaseGive me some overdateliterary sushiLet me put my fingersdown my writer's throatA N Y T H I N GAnything at allto once again make mevomit wordsthat smell not of sour(cream&onions)but of,of course, what else butfreedom.
My mind is a photo bookMy mind is a photo bookFull of memories I'd rather ridA yellowed printOf paper decayed by the yearsShows a sunhat, linked hands, a toothy smileAnd I'd almost forgottenbecause I do images not identitiesMy mind is a photo bookWith scrapbook tendenciesA frayed ribbonA lipstick-kiss pressedin the corner of my memoriesThe fragrance of your hairAnd just this one's a PolaroidTo forbid me to forgetDecorated with one wordcarefully slanted in thick ink:"you."My mind is a photo bookAnd quite the sadist that way
AbberationI try to catch you through a thin disc of the most fragilemost wonderfully powerfulglassBut as I waited for chemicals to form your imageand make your vision mine forever I sawyou had escaped me once againClick-flashes could never capture your -your varnished violist fingersYour beautifulbreathtakingheartIt took me yearsyears stacked upon years like bricks building the home I meant for usto understand why my photos of you were always blurred:It was never meyou were looking at