—GUESS YOU NEVER REALLY KNEW ME AT ALL

                              The Resiliency of Epidermis

          We don’t touch, we never do anymore.  

The mattress might as well be an island, a continent, a sea where it’s only safe to float, because the air—spiced and hot—is what holds us in place, what condenses us.

After the accident and so many surgeries, we can still breathe, but the fire left our skin too tender.  Even the slightest breeze against our flesh can feel threatening.  Doctors said, “The epidermis is only so resilient.”  They said, “The healing process will take some time.”

And now, look--your eyes flutter open, pupils the color of hot coffee--and it’s as if each of our irises is threaded together with invisible yarn, unable to look away, to disengage.

“Good morning, Peach Pie,” I say.

“Morning.”

Your face is the color of raw hamburger, yet you’ve never looked more beautiful, and so I tell you this.

“I feel like a bag of wax,” you say.

“Not even close.  You’re stunning.”

Your lips try twisting into a smile.  “Stop with your lies.  I look hideous.”

“We look the same.”

“You weren’t burnt as badly.”

“Ah, but you were, and so I was doubly.”

When you swallow air, I can see how difficult such a simple act is for you, how the air burns going down.

“I can’t even touch you,” you say.

“Sure you can.”

“The doctors said—“

“Shhh.”

Our eyes are what matters.  I tell you this without speaking and so we set aside words. 

Our eyes become hands, fingertips, lips, and curious tongues.  It’s a clumsy, blind man’s game, a search party in utter darkness, yet we work past what reality tells us.  

When I enter you, there’s a gasp of foul morning air.

“Oh my god.”

“You can feel me?”

You nod.  You say my name.  You tell me not to stop.  You say, “It’s been such a very long time.”

 

—DIDN’T KNOW YOU COULD BE SO CRUEL

Swimming

I suppose we were swimming. Or trying to. Dogpaddling is probably the way to describe it. Our clothes sat in two heaps on the shore. From there they looked like dreams that had melted. I swallowed half a lake that day. Burped some back. Nature was too good for me. Anything good was too good for me. Except you. The sun was a big toe blister. Raw. Pink going scarlet. He waited on the shore for us. Belt in hand. Like a ring master at the circus. We were young animals. Love was a word we’d heard. We swam that way. The only direction home. Then we reversed. Swam opposite. Toward the evergreens. Their limbs. Like arms that might hold us. Their needles laughing in the breeze.

 

—I DON’T NEED YOU TO FIX WHAT I’D RATHER FORGET

  

…There’s only so much love can do.

 

…What good is the truth if you’re the only who knows it?

 

…I’m nothing if not superstitious.

 

…It gets pretty heavy, trying to lift someone up, day after day. Your arms burn and you can’t help but think how much easier it would be to just rest for a while.

 

…People have done harder things. Nobody I know, but still.

 

…You can dress it up all you want, but underneath, it’s still what it is.

 

--Are going to make it?

--I don’t know.

 

…Temperature’s up to 95.

 

…The air doesn’t get thicker for no reason.

 

…“The point of art is to unsettle.” Liz Robbins

 

…I’m not sad, I’m just always here.

 

…It doesn’t have to make sense to be real.

 

…Bay was right: Grief is anything but linear.

 

…“I think there was some jobbling going on.”

 

…Oh yeah, it’s right there.

 

…How you say what you mean changes what you say.

 

…Ghosts say funny things when they’re part of your family.

 

…“Yoo are not your thoughts.” Jill Weber PhD 

 

…Catch the world when it’s being good to you.

 

…Sorry, but I might need a jump.

 

…“Lest we forget, a morgue is also a community center.” Ocean Voung, Time is a Mother

 

…Maybe that’s the answer—only trust your best friend with your worst.

 

…If all we need is love, why do we always want more?

 

…People rarely do what they say they will or what they should.

 

…What do you tell someone when they’re looking for reassurance that you can’t legitimately give them?

 

…I think I’m doing the right thing isn’t always the right thing to do.

 

…A writer who can’t write is one of the saddest creatures alive.

 

…We need to talk is never a good way to start a conversation.

 

…A lot of times I keep my thoughts to myself because silence can’t be misquoted.

 

…A lot of times I think, God damn, life isn’t so bad.

 

…“You’re a fucking mess.”

 

…The stars saw it all.

 

… I realized my friends might be too important to me.

 

…“I love the idea of being a cheetah, because they run really fast. But it feels like a stressful life.” Emma Pattee, Tilt

 

…Poor, Stevie Nicks, always barking at nothing. Can’t you just give her to me? I’m right here.

 

…I had a dog once—Lucy. She was the best dog ever.

 

…You can’t find your way if you don’t where it is you’re supposed to be going.

 

…It’s pretty convenient to believe in God right now, depending on which chair you’re sitting in.

 

…Every day I wake up with the feeling I’ve already heard bad news though I’m not sure if it’s worse than the day before.

 

…It’s hard to be upbeat anymore. I mean, who could be excited for the apocalypse?

 

…Like last week—do you not see how impossibly awful that was?

 

…These are the things I’m trying to figure out sooner than later.

 

…The truth is, I never knew.

 

…Yesterday, you said tomorrow.

“Want to watch coverage of the politicians encouraging fascism or the politicians doing absolutely nothing to stop it?”

 

…I’m just a prop, and props don’t speak.

 

…Nobody wants to be the guy who didn’t nod to that question.

 

…Just let it go. Just don’t make it a thing.

 

…Sometimes I’m so scared I’m numb.

 

…The more scared you get, the nicer you have to be.

 

…What a day. Just give me a sec and I’ll stand back up.

 

…Whatever is about to happen, I don’t want to live it.

 

…That could have been so much worse. That could have been so bad. 

 

… “Try and get more comfortable with the idea that it’s impossible to prevent ourselves from letting others down,” Dr. Jennifer Reid

 

…I was to start, Reasons to be Happy, but that hasn’t worked out so great yet.

 

…Is it worse to try and fail than to not try at all? Because when you don’t try, you can’t always imagine the life you could have lived.

 

…I don’t think it’s like this for most people, which sometimes leaves me sacred.

 

…I guess it does. Does it really go that way?

 

…Why can’t things be simple, like they were before when I was sinner?

  

…“And that’s the problem, see, that’s the whole problem. The things on my mind are unfit for a fetus to hear.” Emma Pattee, Tilt 

 

…I might be there tomorrow.

 

…I’ll be better tomorrow.

 

…Okay, here’s what I’m going to do (…)

 

…It’s not a competition, but somebody’s gotta win, right?

 

…You know you’re really lonely when you read every email in your Junk folder.

 

…“Tell me, what’s going on?”

 

… No offense, but…

 

…Correct me if I’m wrong…

 

…“Mercy is small but the earth is smaller.” Ocean Voung, Time is a Mother

 

…What can possibly go wrong?

 

…Nothing worthwhile or enduring works immediately.

 

…I’m not a martyr. I’m never doing anything close to being called that. But it still doesn’t feel good.

 

...At this point, it’s probably smart to stop asking.

 

…A lot of my friends, and even family, will say, “I can’t do anything about it, so why worry about it?” But that’s just not me, even if I know I can’t do anything about it.

 

…I guess it doesn’t matter, though there are a lot of great reasons to be happy.

 

...I really like the intro. Sorry for re-playing it so much, but it means something to me.

 

…It’s not that I’m not sympathetic.

 

…People will tell you that everything is clear in hindsight, but really, it’s just rewritten.

 

…It’s just you and me now.

 

—IS THERE ROOM ON YOUR SHOULDERS?

 

The Upside

At least I didn’t find you. 

At least I loaned you that chunk of money the first time (though not the second). 

At least we were best friends going on 16 years. 

At least you got to call me a Dick and we both got a jolly laugh out of that. 

At least no one got hurt (until they did).

At least we bought each other’s books (and drinks). 

At least we knew who the frauds and wolves were among us.

At least you knew how much I loved you. 

At least one of us is still alive to write this.   

 

—FLY ROBIN, FLY

Hollow

We were going to live forever, your blind cats too, that was the plan, but every bottle had a hole in it, every glass a crack that leaked, and the riverbeds were dry and the sun thirsted like an iguana in the desert, and you kept saying, Give me one more week, Give me one more week, until forever fell apart, leaving us both bone dry and broken, two empties made of hollow glass.

 

     Karen Stefano passed away last weekend. Some of you who come here knew her. She was one of my very best friends and favorite people. I loved making her laugh. 

     She was a writer and ran one of the first podcasts highlighting authors from the indie world. 

      A former San Diego prosecutor who earned a judgeship, she was a badass, so smart and bright, sarcastic and funny as hell, but she was also incredibly kind, fiercely loyal and one of the best listeners I’ve ever met. 

     There’s obviously much more I could say about Karen and even writing this was a challenge. I’m still crushed beyond measure but just wanted to let those know who need to. I’m unsure what her relatives have planned, but I can give you details once I learn them.     

 

--- YEAH, I GET OVEHWELMED, I GET STRESSED OUT, I’M ALWAYS THINKINIG ABOUT MY HEALTH

 

                                                                   Black Diamonds

       As they walk, the wet pavement sparkles black and diamondy.  Overhead streetlights shine down on them their blessings, his new wife clamped inside his right arm, his daughter hooked against the left, this merry, makeshift family.  They laugh.  It was a stupid movie.  Why do they even make them?  As a car leaps the stoplight, he reacts blink-fast.  He has time but to save one.

At the funeral, dirt clods pound the mahogany lid like infant fists.  On knees, he shudders.  His wife bends down.  “Shhh,” she says.  “It wasn’t your fault.”

At night he never sleeps.  Instead he counts stars and slivers of light.  He remembers the stories his mother read him, the tales of fairies and angel dust, the ones of angels safeguarding on windowsills.

       He watches the drapes dance, their sheer cloth gauzy, ghostly.  The window is closed but then he hears it, mercy, the heater kicking off, and he lets his breathing resume.