king and queen seat. (final

the acute hurt of not knowing suffocates

(when it comes to you anyway)

because I always need to know, need the clench of control

baby boys in big boy clothes, running around, followed clouds of smoke

and punctured with septum rings ill suited for their ski slope noses

you're all bones and I worry about you only sometimes, peripheral exclusive,

only circumstantial thinking really

it reminds me of when she tried to kill herself when I was nine

and they locked her up with women who called me rosemary and touched my hair

old men swore in six languages but could not negotiate day and night

I never knew what motivated her to hate herself so

when she was everything I wanted to be

bone thin, ill and still graceful,

hollow cheeks and wise eyes so tired of the world,

like I was, too young for it

let's throw the pity party, hmm, dunce caps and creamsicle cocktails,

am I beautiful now, mother, father, classmates who skirted around invitations?

it's a foolish thing to dwell when I have grown past the confines of my clay pot, tropical and unruly

mother with her obvious femaleness,

father with his sturdy maleness,

bore a child somewhere in between

I'm sure every woman feels the echoes of maya angelou, even if they've grown tired of a preacher to the choir

yes, yes, you are a woman, as are they, though I'm not sure I will ever know what that feels like

what about audre lorde I wonder, tracy chapman, alice walker even

their voices maybe don’t waver with wisdom, but they are in the same vein

so with all this, I hope you can understand why I worry about you

and your idle thoughts as you ride your bike past my house at three in the morning

you are a vast unknown, the type that frightens and intrigues, a comfort somehow

a man (but are you really) in too plain clothes and not a mark or distinguishing alteration on his body

you were never bones, and I like that.

I like it.

I don't have to worry, or feel the weight of my own empathy on my back

like the pressure to be a woman.

i've learned not to say much.

when I dissolve in a crowd, it's just so I can feel alive some of the time.

eyes are closed, with the orange spot I never noticed until he took a picture of it

somewhere between Helsinki and Halifax, between Caerau and Donegal

and I drew a line in chalk from Trafalgar Square to the edges of Drury Lane,

where flowers grow in pots, overflowing, pink tendrils in my peripherals

my too-worn saddle shoes feeling all the rounded edges of brick roads,

made when the city was a fussy child, unyielding clay, consumed by fire often

these soles were not meant to walk the streets, when I am delirious from hunger

I cannot speak because of lockjaw, self-imposed, cunning but that's a given

so I let words love those I long to inform myself, never just the one

I want to write everyday, with chalk, with a keyboard, with pens stolen

I imagine you softening at the edges when you drink, glasses finally off

something pools inside me as I leave a suburban home and arrive in Antarctica

cracks in saddle shoes allowing snow to seep in, like a hard up for cash friend

and I am finally allowed to be quiet, to not say much, sound dampened anyway

so I find a street, and I walk, playing tic tac toe on glaciers, eyes closed

excerpt from something.

She stands in the doorway, amongst the rubble left by the rush of hipsters avoiding the cops. Dropping a deuce in the bathroom, I had avoided the sirens and masses of people leaving. The house is empty and smells like swiped V-cards and piss. I help myself to a jello shot and don't even notice her until I hear a kind of grunt.

I steal a second one and look up at her. She's about twice as drunk as I am. Deerhunter hat, white tank top I can see her nipples in, blue panties, bear claw slippers. She's drinking four dollar wine from the bottle. She looks at me. I look at her. We stare at each other for what's gotta be five solid minutes before she speaks.

"Party's over," she says.

"Guess so," I say. Silence.

"You know you have to leave, right?" she says, taking another gulp.

I take another jello shot.

"Look, I don't give a fuck if you go home or not. Hell, I don't care if you crash here. But my roommate is gonna raise hell if she finds some floater on the floor tomorrow," she says in one breath.

Silence.

"'Kay," I say, taking another shot for good measure. I try to go for the front door. She holds her hand up.

"Back door. What are you, a freshman?" she says, pointing.

I salute her and go into the night.

what happened was

yesterday you cut me out of your life

and I know that I deserved it, gave or took it like the statue I am
the impression of you gripping my soft spots captured for
fanny-packed tourists to gawk at before the call of an empty stomach

as I walked the streets, hungry and alone (not uncommon)
I came across the cracks in the sidewalk blooming weeds like
they were jewels -- I picked up the last wishflower of the summer

though highline and into the village I carried it with me

feeling asphalt seep through my sandals

and that's when I knew

your hands haven't learned much yet.

that crippling sensation that comes with knowing that you are wrong in every sense of the word

I can't breathe without the thought of failing creeping into my bones

and on and on I go, despite this wrongness

isn't it good to be alive, she said, and I agreed

king and queen seat.

the acute hurt of not knowing suffocates

because I always need to know, need the clench of control

baby boys in big boy clothes, running around, followed clouds of smoke and punctured with septum rings ill suited for their ski slope noses

you're all bones and I worry about you only sometimes, peripheral exclusive, only circumstantial thinking really

it reminds me of when my mother tried to kill herself when I was nine

and they locked her up with women who called me rosemary and touched my hair

old man swore in six languages but could not negotiate day and night

I never knew what motivated her to hate herself so, when she was everything I wanted to be

bone thin, ill and still graceful, hollow cheeks and wise eyes so tired of the world, like I was, too young for it

let's throw the pity party, hmm, dunce caps and creamsicle cocktails, the closest thing to dairy I'll touch nowadays

yes, I became a vegan to lose weight and it worked, didn't it? am I beautiful now, mother, father, classmates who skirted around my prom invitations?

it's a foolish thing to dwell when I have grown past the confines of my clay pot, tropical and unruly

mother with her obvious femaleness, father with his sturdy maleness, bore a child somewhere in between

I'm sure every woman feels the echo and/or imprint of maya angelou in ears and on skin, even if they've grown tired of a preacher to the choir

yes, yes, you are a woman, as are they, though I'm not sure I will ever know what that feels like

what about audre lorde I wonder, this androgynous creature of intimate words referencing the curves of others similar to herself, years ahead of her time

and I hope you can understand why I worry about you and your idle thoughts as you ride your bike past my house at three in the morning

you are a vast unknown, the type that frightens and intrigues, a comfort somehow

a man in too plain clothes and not a mark or distinguishing alteration on his body

you were never bones, and I like that. I like it. I don't have to worry, or feel the weight of my own empathy on my back like the pressure to be a woman.

in some ways, it's a surprise

that I've grown accustomed to your rhythm, your edge
and I feel the thrum of my jealousy at the sight of draped bodies
how and what I want don't always intersect
this is no exception, when your smile makes me crazy
but I'm hesitant to even turn your way

am I crazy? likely.

send you my love on a wire.

what do you want from me?
it isn't as though this shit ends.
we are circular and ultimately directionless as we try to fathom a future without hatred
but it's always there
it's always going to be there
and you can't keep denying it, or we'll get nothing accomplished
as tides wash in
and fears wash out, leaving indifferent residue.

novel excerpt.

"Sometimes I want to punch him, but sometimes I want to kiss him too, and the kissing outweighs the punching in the end, you know?" Ingrid sighed.

"Yeah," Christopher said, even though he didn't.

"It was absurd how angry I was -- I didn't even think I was capable of it," she went on, laughing lightly.  "He just took off, vanished, you know?  I didn't know he was working for the Administration until it was too late to talk him out of it.  And I couldn't stop him, because I'm just a halfie and he's a fucking deerkint, for god's sake, do you know how powerful they are?  Ugh, it was terrible.  And I put poor Tallulah through such torture because all I did was roll up the windows and talk about how much I hated everything and how much I wasn't going to cry because fuck crying.  She kept on making all these pitiful noises, so one day I just gave her a break and pulled over on the side of the road and screamed."

"Yelling helps," Christopher agreed.  He missed the woods around his house for that reason.

"My life was getting worse by the day.  I mean, my fiance abandoned me.  My mother was -- is -- dying from something awful and unknown and the relatives that were supposed to help me are either dead or of no service.  And here I was, just screaming in a field more because of the guy than my own mother, who went through hell from the magic community because she loves my dad... sometimes I don't even feel like a Foundra."

Christopher hesitated before putting a hand on her arm.  "You're really strong for going through all that," he started, then everything tumbled out.  "You're one of the more brave people I've met, and you have so many good qualities, so put away the bat.  No one can be everything at once.  We all have limits before we snap.  Sometimes, it's good to snap." 

Ingrid stared at him for a moment before her face broke into a grin.  "You're a great kid, Chrissy," she said, ruffling his hair.

"Thanks, ma," he replied.  So he was a kid now.  Great.

"No, you know what I mean," Ingrid insisted.  He didn't.  "You're gonna make someone really happy one day, babe.  I just know it."  

A moment passed, a fraction of time in which something significant should have happened.  Had his life been a film, he would have brushed the stray bit of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.  She would have blinked at him with those dark, endless eyes of hers, whispering something to herself in that tongue that she would have to teach him later.  They would lean in at once, two sets of eyes fluttering shut as two sets of lips met in an instant of accord.  His hand would rest on her cheek.  Her hand would settle on his knee.  Music would swell in the background, the theme of the film or some soaring indie epic -- or maybe there would be the silence that happened when everything else in the world went still but them in that moment.  But his life was not a film.  There was no director, no script, and no chance to do it over as she got up and brushed any dirt and debris off her rear.

"I'm going to check on him -- I'll see you later, yeah?" she said, smiling in that way that made his heart stutter, if that were even possible.

"Yeah, see you," was all that he could come up with.  She paused before giving a little wave and turning around. 

Christopher bit his tightened fist to keep from crying out in frustration.  The Darbys of the world once again got the upper hand, and all he could do was watch as she walked away.