breakup before a blind date

There is a point (or many tiny and discrete points) in life, maybe (I can’t speak for everyone), when you realize that you will not be able to get along in a pair with every person, no matter how hard you both (as a pair) try, based on fundamental differences characteristic of the individuals involved in the pair (you plus one other person). One such point occurred in my life on the night prior to this very day. I had been conversing with a gentleman I had not met face-to-face over an app that will remain nameless because I hate it. He seemed fairly bland (describing himself as having “better than average hygiene,” which, I think, is not that important, if you’re cool), but he must have had an interest in me (or at least some unfounded hopefulness) to continue to ask me questions, so I continued to answer his questions out of harmlessness.  He asked if we could meet.  I said I was busy (and I probably was – with nothing, which is valid). He asked if we could meet again.  I figured, why not?  I have to eat dinner regardless.  He seemed boring though – or, to put it differently: he didn’t seem like my type (I can tell).  He seemed like a former student of engineering who did not realize that engineering was boring while he was studying it, and still did not realize it now that he was working in it (I say this as a former student of engineering who realized engineering was boring while I was studying it, and now do not work in it).  

I asked him if I would have to act like a grown up when we met, and he told me: only if you want to.  So I decided I probably wouldn’t act like a grown up, and we agreed to meet at a time and a place, and this time was over two hours from when I get home from work.  So I figured (innocently, I thought): I’ll grab a beer beforehand (as I am sometimes wont to do after a day at work), to take the edge off of what might (with some pre-calculated probability) be a lackluster encounter. I got a beer, and it was a strong one, but it was just a beer after a day at work. He messaged me (still via app) and said he was on his way to our predetermined meeting location. I said, cool, I am getting drunk first (an exaggerated response from someone one beer in, who has a penchant for hyperbole).  He responds, rather quickly: seriously? I knew then, with a laugh, immediately upon reading, that not only was he likely boring, but he was also kind of sort of overly judgmental.  I said I’d go home then, and he told me to have fun with that, and we both lived happily ever after having never met each other, because it never would have worked out for the two of us anyways.

a poem about being single

Holding out for a win, a win, a window: an opportunity.  A fleeting whim: a flight of fancy. Bemoaning, emoting: a long, a will, a way.  Bewitching, enchanting: to hope, to dream, to prey. Currently nowhere, moving toward nothing, holding onto blank spaces, holding out for something.  Something, someone, sometime, and someplace. A reckless abandon: some beat, some breath, some face. Exchanging words, passing time, breaking records in repetition: you (the former) and I.  Exchanging glances, passing judgment, breaking promises pre-made: just I, just I, just I.  Wherefore art thou: the ending’s not so far gone. Pick your poison, and I’ll drink mine: a pair beats all hands tonight.


What do you do when all of the things that you want to do are the things that you shouldn’t want to do because Society tells you that you should want certain things and the things that you want are in almost direct opposition to the things that you are supposed to want? What do you do when you have spent thousands of dollars and 19 (9 + 4 + 4 + 2) years in school only to learn that real learning occurs out of the classroom and that some cliches have weight? What do you do when you spend those same 19 years trying to figure out your dream job as a means to reach your destiny only to find out that jobs are not the things of dreams, but the things that destroy dreams? What do you do when good enough would be good enough but good enough can’t be good enough because it’s not enough to cover the debts that are owed for the dollars lent out by pockets that are fat and growing fatter in clothing growing tighter and tighter and moving towards a burst?  What do you do when you reach 25 and it feels like a life crisis to be asking the same questions you thought you would have answered by now because of the mere fact that you have been asking them for so long? What do you do when you realize that buying things does not make you happy and free time does not give you enough time to find yourself, even though you have too much free time and its limited expanse is boxing you in? What do you do when you’re just months out of school and a month or two fewer into your first real job and already it feels like the days are playing on repeat because they are repeating because they are repeating because they are repeating because they are they are they are and they won’t stop won’t stop won’t ever stop unless you give in unless you give up unless you decide to make a reckless change? What do you do in that scenario?


modern communication

I reach for my phone. I check my texts. Nothing from you. Nothing from anyone. I reach for my phone. I check my texts. I start to send one. It feels unimportant. I erase I erase I erase. I reach for my phone. I check my texts. It’s just me here with my problems. It’s just me here seeking substance. It’s just me here reaching for my phone my connection my lack of barriers my lack of space. I reach for my phone. I check my texts. Nothing from you. Nothing from anyone. I think about listening to music. I think about wasting time. I think about the nonsense I want to send you so we can share something insignificant, but ours. I reach for my phone. I check my texts. Nothing from you. Nothing from anyone. I hate constant conversation. I hate my constant need to speak. I hate that I can tell you nothing the moment that nothing happens. I want to tell you everything, but everything seldom happens.

I reach for my phone. I check my texts. Nothing from you. Nothing from anyone. Strange numbers left unsaved. Words from people left nameless. If you don’t know their names, they don’t feel like people. If you don’t know their names, their emotions don’t matter. I reach for my phone. I check my texts. Strange numbers left unsaved. Strange ways to find connection. Sharing nothing with no one. Sharing nothing with me. I reach for my phone. I check my texts. Nothing from you. Nothing from anyone. Nothing from you nothing from anyone. nothing from you nothing from anyone nothing from nothing is nothing gives nothing to no one to anyone who will take it and give nothing and take nothing exchange exchange exchange nothing waste time waste space waste goods and bads and trade them for nothing with no one and what does it matter it doesn’t matter we don’t matter to no one but no one is what we need.

the first day of a long-awaited spring

Twists and turns broke hearts broke bones you’re harmless harming less and less what’s left of me what’s here. You dig in claws sharpened to blades slicing flesh like water while innocently extending a hand to hold. I give you mine you pull me under you’re a head above water you’re a head above me. I watch streams of shower water raining down and joining on pale skin turned pink from heat almost too hot but bearable teetering on borderlines between pains and pleasures.

I’m here with you in pain in pleasure pausing a swelling rush of emotions levees bound to break and overflowing. I let happiness sift through I let it show – my eyes shine love longing yours to mine. You leave I’m left an unsifted mixed-bag and I hold on and I let it go – my eyes shine love longing with an unmatched unmet gaze. I call it morning they call it mourning and what a difference you make to me. My point of view my blinders on I can accept the dimming the dark.

Spark fizzle fade back to black with both eyes closed a sunrise’s sun rays’ warmth causing winter-cold patterns of goosebump-marked skin’s thaw. This end is another start: an unwelcome needed intermission. Act III unknowingly unwritten as a tragic lovelorn comedy. When you say “let’s go,” I won’t ask where you’re taking me.  I’ll go.


You hold onto me tightly and I cling to you too tight as I feign sleep while you sleep while my mind rushes wide awake while you kick your feet as if you’re running to or from in your dreams. When you wake up when you leave when I don’t know when if you’re coming back what my mind races for what I hope you’re not running toward. I turn over and you turn to follow me and we fit together two puzzle pieces in one of three or four perfect shapes that our bodies fall into on mattresses on pillows on floors or under trees on rocky grounds untouched by human hands building foundations save for ours save for ours. You sigh while you’re awake and you sigh while you sleep and I wonder if you know what those sighs are for what they are saying what you are holding back and thinking of of what questions I should be asking of what I am scared you’ll answer. I say I want to know you and I mean it and I’m worried but I want to and is a year in too late to get started – was a year too long a wait? I will give it a try if you’ll give it a go – a year feels too early to end. 

swimming through the current

The last bunch of days after days blurred and blended and then disappeared, and they did not take me with them. I am here and I woke up today after I don’t know how many weeks spent asleep and I wonder how my absence went unnoticed for so long. I don’t remember much from the last couple months (due to chemicals, repression, or both), but it’s somehow mid-March, and since I am alone save for seldom, there’s no one who can fill in the blanks.

I guess I got by. I guess I fed myself. I guess I went to work and went home and showered and slept. I guess I got by. I guess I fed myself. I guess I went to work and went home and showered and slept. I guess I got by. I guess I fed myself. I guess I went to work and went home and showered and slept. I guess that continued. I guess that it had to. But isn’t circling just spiraling in two dimensions?

What differentiates your days and how can you tell you are alive and moving forward and making progress and making changes and changing lives and living one too and gaining skills and being useful and making money and spending money and giving away everything you don’t have and never knew you needed. What brings you from where you were to where you are and what mode of transfiguration did you use and where can I purchase one and could I get a fair price if I decide to go used?

Not making waves, but riding them. Not making waves, but being held underwater for a few seconds too many before realizing that one too has passed and there is still sand under feet and between ten toes and you can find strength to stand up and blink saltwater from eyes with a close and with an open you see the color of a mother’s umbrella where she’s staked out in the sand. Waiting worried but remaining as a caring constant from the safety of the shore you walked away from to see if you could swim.  

A relief washes over me like an awesome wave that I let push me under if for nothing else than to remind myself of what it means to stand back up again. Tides recede. Fogs lift. Days blur and blend. I am still here. I am still here. I am still here.