I could have forgiven you almost anything and
revealed all and borne your inquities except
when you pushed and pushed and pushed and
never pulled except at the last moment when
I had already let go. now here we stand apart
never speaking never breathing a sound into the
void thin air that can’t bear the weight of words
or the current sparking arcing across the gap.

fuck you. cut and run. none of it was your doing.
fuck you. the guilty takes the blame like a man.
fuck you. that a film brings up this bile again.
fuck you. that you did what I should have
so many many many many many times over.

and i thought we would last. i really did back when we were fighting
everyone and everything for it instead of crumbling from the inside.
prostitute yourself for the feeling of belonging to something anything.
i know you are doing this because you so enjoyed doing this to me:
pulling me to the edge and beyond only to take on your animal self
and push me away again for some elusive freedom. fuck you for
making it easy to justify in your absence and your petulant tantric
penduluming allegiances and your insane devotion to upper hands
and your constant undecided vacillation between many poles
and how you’d toss yourself at any man who’d so much as look.

and you thought it was the last poem i’d write you. well fuck you.
go engorge yourself on another’s affections. i don’t really mind
finally being warm and full of blood and not dreading your return.

how has no one ever called you
a fucking backstabbing son of a bitch?
i’ll do it. i’ll do it and i’ll feel the crack
of my knuckles on your jawbone.
idiot. i’ll be the man who knocks the boy
the fuck out of you.

so we thought. and now here i am
years later, double scotch straight up
the chimney and into the cold night sky
thinking about dad. why did mum
ever marry the guy. how did they
meet and what was the catalyst.

am i him? not much. he doesn’t take scotch.
he hates the cubans i bought the other day.
he swears i’ll have lung cancer
or tongue cancer but fuck cancer.
i’ll sleep when i’m dead and my body will decay
and i’ll be feeding someone’s ambitious crops.
we all die when it’s right and i intend
to die when it’s right for me.

am i him? not much. maybe.
we are both builders, though i’ve never
quite had his knack for picking up a saw
and making the two by four longer.
a little. see how i’m taking you,
ripping you apart, and putting you
back together? he’s never
quite had my knack for making friends
and understanding how people work.

and so it is that i’m sitting on a barstool
with a pen between my fingers,
a napkin wedged under my elbow
thinking about my father, your father,
the fathers of the world, and how we
are not much like them,
no, not at all.

i remember this one time she
suprised me on the elevator:
the doors shifted open and there she was
like some sort of just-cleaned
animals, straight from the zoo.
the wild in my apartment untamed,
so i took her out for coffee
and we chatted about art
theory and what the fuck were
those impressionist smoking.

when i kissed her goodnight
did she feel my divided loyalties?
i don’t think so, but she should have.
she was so innocent
and so slow to learn things
about me.

i recall after she left thinking how
maybe i did love her after all.
but i’ve never been able to
stick with any one thing:
my waywardness has lost me
many decent pets.

even now i divide my time between
loving her and hating her.
she was a good lover,
almost always faithful.
honestly. but we were both
so innocent and slow
to learn things about eachother

when i let myself i miss you so much. i should not have left you.
should have bit the fucking bullet. should have shut the fuck up.
shouldn’t have told you about the french girl and how we lit
new york up like a million watt lightbulb. you have both left me.

i am all too human. not that i want to be but that i am. human.
frail and prone to fall off the wagon. faithless failing falling.
shouldn’t have ever met and loved you on sight five years ago.
should have turned the fuck away. should have left you then.

august 28 is our anniversary. remember how we were one last year.
but my back is broken from lying on the floor. i feel like two.
i feel like you. playing people like chess pieces. fuck you.
life isn’t a game to be played like you can’t wreck people.

august 32 is when we get back together. fuck you. fuck you.
my stomach lining eaten by your reflux your reflexes.
you are acting the goat. stupid idiot lover with your ideas
that only if you have the most friends you’ve won something.

you were not slim confidant beautiful cocky and fuckall.
sometimes i still expect to see you timid in new situations
but instead she is there to prove you opposing forces.

last night i forgot you turned my head and said her name
as she growled mine back into my ear. fiercly. grinning.
jordan i love you. tom i love you. till morning almost.
it was high noon before i remembered how you whispered.

you were not her but dammit i was used to your body.
i am still discovering places with my hands. with my lips.
she is still something of a mystery. she is still exciting.

but i am constantly measuring idiosyncracies your and hers.
i tell her this and she doesn’t mind. she knows i loved you
but she knows i love her and that one day i will say that
godammit i am used to you jordan. you’re my favorite shoes.
you come here. let’s fuck up the morning good and proper.