Friendship in a Post-Amy World.


I’m living post-Amy.

Somewhere between jumping on and off the A and the C and sometimes the F if I need to, I realize that the Benjamin Button curse did not hit me yet, and I may just be getting older. Definitely not a problem. Well, it wasn’t an issue until I began looking around at the friendships I created. Some in the heat of the moment, some while sitting in a restaurant $1 short on the bill and having to ask the people next to me, and some while coloring inside the line and being happy about it when Mrs. Fisher clapped for me.

I don’t want all these people here when I cruise into 30, hoping the cops no longer see me as a threat. Something like Mt. St. Helens, I will be. I’ve been weeding out the idiots, the ignorant, the depressed, and those who look at me in awe when I tell them I’m getting on a plane. The latter: I don’t want to be surrounded by people who can’t see possibilities for themselves. I’m pushing all my friends to get passports. That’s important to me. At dinner last Sunday with 8 of the best people I know, we laughed, and drank and drank and laughed a bit more then shared some of the best food we had ever tasted. And it hit me: this is how I want to spend my days; laughing with people who love to laugh, eating with people who appreciate good food, and drinking with people who will make sure I get to the train safely if I don’t know my limit on tequila.

“She is a friend of mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order. It’s good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind.” – toni morrison.

I want to say that about every friend I have at the end of this year. I remember being 21 and having a million people who would tie ropes around my sentences and hang there for days. That was a great feeling for me. Now, though, it’s not as important to have a ton of friends as it is to have good ones; those who gather me. Those friends of my mind who make me smile randomly while sitting in a middle seat 2,000 miles and 25,000 feet above them.

Living in this Post-Amy society, there must exist those folks who are going to let you know when now is just not the right time to make that move to the stage. You’re stumbling, and the people do not need to see you like this. The world is full of “friends” of suicide victims thinking “if I had only made that drive over there, I could have done something.” At 20, I was that.

With tact, exit from the world I’ve created, and we never have to speak of those good times again.

cover, girl


cover, girl

she scared for me to look
she hadn’t been watched over in years and banished the eyes of men who pretended to remember her beauty
i can see it in her face
or under that disdain she poorly wore as makeup
cover
yourself
girl

carry it better next time

we carried that love around inside us
like some disease
like some kind of cancer we never bothered to fight
we could never beat it

who would want to
who wishes to rip their guts out thinking it would distract from the tears
leaving the under parts of your eyelids raw
i still remember kitchen counters and metal walls and nakedness and small white shirts standing in front of a toilet on a cold wooden floor staring at buddhist monks who smiled back not knowing everything would be dead soon
they smiled back is what mattered
and to them everything is still alright
and what i carried around inside me did not flush like i had hoped

ten years should change us all


(photo by kwesi abbensetts)

she’s early 20s and the only thing that matters is whose pussy’s better
she raises her hands in hip hop fashion
in urban fashion
bootleg eurotrash jeans
what never matters is what happens after the sex
she just expects them to leave
it’s what she’s grown accustomed to
but she’s gotta learn jazz before her early thirties
she’s gotta grow accustomed to a face or two
she’s gotta place her heart between her legs at some point so some man will touch her there at least once
but these are the early 20s and touching hearts only happen when the palm misses the titty
i’m sorry
i shouldn’t have left that night i should have said

little weedhead of my dreams

i wanted to write a poem about the girl i watched all night
looking at me like she knew me
but all that came out was a puff of smoke from lungs i thought went boot black with the heart i kept beating for the girl who looked at me everyday with new eyes
and i don’t know if this poem counts for anything
but if it does
i’ll come back and save you
the little weedhead of my dreams