Vamanos, mi hearties.

I'm out of Boston on a junk bus heading home and couldn't be happier. In no time will I be sitting back with friends for hours doing nothing, just being friends. Perhaps we'll drive to Goodwill, perhaps up to People's State Forest, or the American Legion State Forest, maybe we'll even head up to Sky Top Lanes for some bowling/Big Lebowski reenacting, but most likely, we'll just stay at one of our homes for hours doing nothing, just being friends. 

We'll brag about our triumphs, and perhaps we'll mope about our failures, but we'll be happy to just be together again.

Oh Barkhamsted the memories bubble back.

I Cannot Find it

There is poetry in the fact that the divergence between Man and Mouse occurred only 90 million years ago; but I cannot tap the well to whisper its secrets to me.

There is poetry in the New England seasons; in train rides up to beach houses and making love with the Atlantic as witness; but I cannot find it in my pencil to tickle theses things on paper.

There is bitter poetry in returning home slowly; and I am its victim.

There is poetry in your face; it's weird, and I hope you recognize that.

There is poetry in childhood, obviously.

There is poetry in Bones, but aquariums and museums are only minor libraries.

There is poetry unresolved, in ruins, everywhere, thanks to you; and I am left to pick up the pieces.

Things I Remember

My wallet has an "Izze" label stuck on it.

I can remember the day I pulled it off the bottle and stuck it there: July 8th, 2007. I was sitting sipping the drink on the lawn of Pratt, Brooklyn bustling on around me.

I can remember what I wore on the Fourth of July, 2006: my tan corduroys with the moose patch, my 'Brandeis' shirt that Max had gotten me, and a white button up. I remember because that was the first time I had traveled alone, I was going to Europe.

I remember the birth and creation of almost all of my written stories. It's strange that now, almost a year to date since the Underdog was finished, it's being published in the Connecticut Review. Should I be happy? I don't feel it. 

I remember lazy afternoons in the summer, driving around with friends, auditioning for shows, screwing around by the river.

I remember the first time I got drunk; off of absinthe and screwdrivers beckoning in 2008; and how in my drunkenness, and sickness, I thought of the same people I continue to think about today.

I remember when I first picked up a pencil and put it to paper to vent my frustration.

I remember my first kiss; gambled away lamely in a game over the summer.

I remember my second kiss; on stage, perhaps worse, because it was to Blanche DuBois.

I remember my third kiss; I liked it because we had just finished Annie Hall, and you said I reminded you of Woody Allen in a cute, not-so-dorky manner.

I remember Europe.

I remember getting drunk in Dublin.

I remember driving to Beach Rock with a girl I liked, then sitting there for hours simply surveying the beauty of New England in the summer.

I remember acting.

I remember leaving home.

I remember the desert.

I remember rain forests.

I remember the first bird I ever identified on my own.

I remember aiming at a chickadee with my slingshot, and the grief I felt when, for the first and only time, I hit my target.

I remember finding the junkyard.

I remember my old cell phone with its produce stickers stuck on everywhere.

I remember you teasing me about my dorkiness, I didn't mind.

I remember walking across the Brooklyn Bridge with a girl I liked; nothing happened.

I remember reading Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass on the Fourth of July.

I remember finishing A History of Love and thinking of whatsherface.

I remember when I made the conscious decision to call her whatsherface, but then again, I've done that with everyone else since whatsherface, so I guess she was the first.

I remember meeting the first person my age whose writing blew me away.

I remember meeting the second person my age whose writing blew me away.

I remember I told you to write, now you do, and it kills me.

I remember the first time I read Arthur Rimbaud, it was something of a daze, ecstasy, and amazement at its beauty.

I remember the first time I spoke on Radio.

I remember getting in a car accident.

It's weird but I don't have that many memories.

Easels Us

This one is a bit dated, I wrote it the Tuesday after we elected our president. It definitely could've reflected more hope.

I could trace my finger beneath 

the fine curve of her jaw.

I could place my palm into 

the resplendent valley between her shoulder blades.

Your soft contact soothed me, 

and your eyes gently told me the sweetest things all reason forbade. 

The smiles you flashed between our lips were all the joys that ignite 

just as your kisses were the scriptures I sought to spend my life interpreting; 

the poetic verses I still long to recite.

The soft touchings of our fingers were the scratchings of pencils on doodle pads - ourselves.

We painted passionate portraits over each other with our hands. 

And for a few days in November, we were 

Monet

Van Gogh

Dali

Picasso.