How to Not Be Kissed

Boys:

Stalk the one you think you love, follow her on Twitter, follow her in your dreams; take your shirt off in unnecessary circumstances and pretend to flex; be jealous of her postman, her waiter, her parking officer, anyone who might be closer to her at any given time than you are; kill small mammals in the backyard and use their intestines as drippy christmas lights; write inaccurate & shitty poetry that rhymes but act like it's bigger than Jesus, bigger than the Beatles; do what you enjoy and only what you enjoy – and you're sure to never be kissed.

Girls:

Your job is much simpler: Put some clothes on.

The Guide to Getting Away From Where We Are Now

For Brad Liening, without whom this would not exist.

1
First, realize that this is not where you want to be. It's too hot out, the world has you by the throat, your endless possibilities are suddenly sprouting endings – as you like. No, this is not where you want to be at all.

2
Then, take the bus. It's always been so reliable and I hear it's air-conditioned in the summer. It'll take you where you wish to go.

3
Now that you're on the bus, realize how hopeless this all is. The Man behind Metro Transit is in cahoots with The Man behind Education: there's no place you can run! Punch a scaly fat woman for smelling too loudly, and, thanking the driver for falling asleep behind the wheel, step off the bus.

4
"There's no place like home!"
"There's no place like home!"
"There's no place like home!"

5
Once you realize you don’t have any signal, face the Eastern cityscape and run back to where you came from; run hopelessly through the rain that your clouded mind has conjured, passing every landmark and memory you envision, and attempt to jump over even the smallest of puddles.

6
Remember taking pictures here under the sun-tipped cathedral?

7
Ask wary strangers for change. They will have none to give you.

8
Dig out your phone, vibrating.
“You sent that text three times.
I thought we agreed we weren’t going to do this anymore.”

9
Stick your free hand into the mouth of the fountain, and while your body might be stuck in the Forever-Now, your weightless hand is floating somewhere far off, down a wishful stream, drinking in the careless sunlight of the West.

The Difficulty in Seeing

The sun reflects everything white

in the crystal-ball morning.

I wander forests with spotted sight,

where ambivalent birds are soaring.

In the crystal-ball morning,

I peer into the drying pool,

where ambivalent birds are soaring.

The impartial sun seems so cruel.

I peer into the drying pool,

searching for someone I've kissed.

The impartial sun seems so cruel–

though there's one thing I missed.

Searching for someone I've kissed,

I wander forests with spotted sight,

though there's one thing I missed:

The sun reflects everything white.

today i will burn

I can't write for very long,

else my flame will go out!

What's this self-control I've been hearing about?

There's something hot about this new air.

It must be her legs and the skirt she wears!

Oop, excuse me, must do something obscene–

what a dangerous gift to be seventeen!

All my vital organs have caught golden fire.

Not even acid rain can quench my desire.

tomorrow i will burn

My friends all seem older than me,

since I was born late in the cycle.

I suppose then they called us late bloomers.

Now they call us sensitive types.

Yes, I unfolded an untimely lotus,

blooming in whatever was left of the year.

I stand now at the top of the stair,

the last to descend from the attic.

I am merely one step away

from stepping free from these roots.

Maybe after then, I can write

a poem that contains no "i"–

but tomorrow, i will burn.

an' tomorrow, we will burn.

Rivaling even the arid sun

in the ancient memory sky,

for the year has just tomorrow begun:

an' it will blaze all the gardens of indifference.

I Will Not Temper Your Tender Hand Yet

I will not temper your tender hand yet,
Though it fills me with singsong wonder:
Not until the dwindling sun has set.

What was once innocent I’ll never forget,
Since we’ve slipped past our first blunder–
I will not temper your tender hand yet.

I once thought it good to pay my heart’s debt,
But now covet your long-ignored number:
Not until the dwindling sun has set.

Occasionally I paint a dream where we had never met.
And though silence is cut short by white thunder,
I will not temper your tender hand yet.

I dream yet still of your face glowing wet,
But restlessly stir without dark slumber.
Not until the dwindling sun has set.

If these fingers still whisper with soft regret,
Then I’ll wait ‘till my senses are long under.
I will not temper your tender hand yet.
Not until the dwindling sun has set.

just a little rain

I am going to euthanize the rain!

Every last drop,

and each drop's droplets,

all of its bipolar essence:

the flavor of nature's bittersweet chocolate;

the plip-plop pattering of purity;

the smoky sense of romance

that soaks the future

and puts to sleep

our young faces.

tomorrow's the end

The news has been telling us something is wrong.

Putting our lips on each other is so common a thing,

and budding eardrums are split by bad music

for hours in the damp basement, abandoning all

admiration for heroes, all we want are blankets;

overwrought with cheap kisses and salty tongues,

rolling in the shameless earth, pickled warm bodies;

and since hugging is hello, hello thus becomes goodbye:

No one is ever around, only their ego's shadow,

while all the judgments we strap to our back

weigh just as much as before, wearing us down, and

holding in it everything we need to survive

in this old and rigid world.

It's not our fault; we're required to carry backpacks
to make our weary parents happy,
who sit distraught in spare coat closets:

and cries for tomorrow's youth,
who cries for tomorrow's youth,
who cries for tomorrow's youth.

I watched them build Target Field,

which began as a tundra of urban dirt,
far coarser than the tawny sand of
Lake Superior, I'm certain—
encircled by asthmatic, yellowed buildings
blotched by bird shit and cigarette ash,
now reflecting hymns about peanuts—
I met every construction worker
when their lime-green jackets began
to pierce the groggy grey morning—
I was oblivious until the marble of it
stood directly atop me; now I sit
inside its popular, patriotic prison—

waiting for a bus to whisk me away
to where we build flowers in the wet sand.

It's All The Same

With a couple quarters I found in the gutter

I bought my Coke, wet and same as always;

and elsewhere the kids shout "recess! recess!"

and I wonder what we're so afraid of.