Thursday, January 22, 2009

Weight of the Steady Beat

Weight of the Steady Beat

The angle of my balcony allows a view of the swing set in one of those
playgrounds that appears every three blocks in Brooklyn.
I sit with Paul watching a scene I’ve waited 20 years to see:
four children swinging the two in the middle flying perfect time
two outer kids offbeating as by metronome.
I laugh. You’re an offbeat.
Paul laughs. My only words all afternoon.
PK begs affection insists pigtail pulling sand throwing
he hasn’t seen drunken attention heard comments trying
to negotiate an embrace or a lift.
I have to remind AJ to close her blinds so we can leave experience at exposed leg.

I put out todays tenth cigarette and exit to enter my room hoping
to accomplish something greater than abstract thought.
Angel Hair Sleeps With A Boy In My head more unturned than
not. I steal photography prints left neglected. Surround myself
with strangers and their memories. That song
reminds me of my father. I push my smiles for him elsewhere:
You need to wash the dishes.
You’re going to need to wash your face after my fist hits it.
I make PK go with Paul. They’ll be out ‘til I wake.
See I have this fear of knives. And nighttime. And kids with nothing to do.

Previous scars leave me with folded arms at a party.
They smile like it’s acceptable. I can’t drink without
worry of bruised wrists bloody pants the next day.
Drinking remedies this condition—two beers
equal fear three leave arms dangling ready for consideration.
Paul spills his second drink always my cleaning leaves
him yelling. You aren’t my mother. Leave me alone.
Thank you for taking care of me. You’re the best. I’m sorry
for yelling. And for hitting on you. I do that to everyone.
I smile. He takes the dripping toilet paper to the trash.

I read until phrases blur to run-on words that still hold meaning.
The rain dissipated two days ago. I feel it missing. The carpet
on the balcony still seeps water into my heels so I shower before bed.
I saved the packaging AJ got when she went to the store. It says
5 pk kids’ hangers. I want to marry him tomorrow.
I wonder if my thoughts were classified rude proud trustless and they
walked around like people would he consider loving me in spite.
A lighthouse props itself on my dresser alongside a skeleton on a bicycle.
I consider this a portrait of my insides. They display me more than
the shirts and skirts contained below.

They call it strain because it seems as though you are being pressed into,
Extruded through tiny holes. I click on my lamp and there is no bulb
so I build reflectors and use the hallway light.
What do the Amish do when it is windy and they have only candles?
PK reads in place of working and takes cards at the gym
a few hours a week. I made him a playlist including hiphop
because I couldn’t imagine him listening to it.
Paul asks me to punch him. I slap as compromise. PK pouts. Flirting.
No. Flirting is disguise for lust. I resign myself to reside in first grade puzzles of manner. Striking is pure affection. Which is why he has
his bruises and Paul gets open palm.
Whatever. Keep comments Let me know when
support can be an option. My bed turned King-sized but short.
My imagination dimmed in exchange for kisses.

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