Some Black Light

If you are reading this note
it is because I have run away.
I am gone from you now
and you are never
never never
never never going to find me.
Ever.

By the time you read this
I shall have entered
into a new kingdom
and will be living the life of Rilo Kiley
under some black light.
I’ll have found a better place
and you’ll be without me.
You will be unable to see me
or talk to me
or apologize for the fuzzy dice
which shouldn’t have been that hard to do
after all anyway.

When you get this letter,
don’t come looking for me.
It won’t work;
I’ll be too far gone
been hidden in ways
you could never conceive.
Don’t trouble yourself
you’d just look the fool
(and definitely don’t visit the Diner on forty eighth
between six and ten)
because it won’t work
and you’ll never see me again.
Ever.

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Meanings and End

I really thought we were gonna do it.
I expected us to be the couple
to make it
to prove that you could meet in grade school
and last to the very end
and I guess we did last to the very end
of the relationship
but that wasn’t what I meant.
That wasn’t what I expected.
That wasn’t what I’d hoped.

You don’t get it, I guess.
If you could just,
I don’t know,
look inside my head
then you’d understand.

I’ve been having dreams lately.
Unsettled dreams.
Naked dreams.
Dreams where I am doing what has to be done
– weird shit –
but all along
I feel
there’s something else I should be doing
and it always feels
the seconds ticking away
will take that thing farther away,
make it harder to ever finish
but it’s all finished now anyway, right?
That’s how I wake up.

I’m sorry.
I don’t mean to be so maudlin
so fucking cliche.
I swear, though,
this’ll be the last time
you hear me go on like this.

After all,
there’s always a last everything,
eventually.

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Smooshing

The word choice,
I admit,
was uninspired.
It was a cliche,
thoughtless,
and really,
truly
beneath both of us.

I should have been more thoughtful
in how I composed myself
and my language
and I can assure you
that languidly lazy turn of speech
will not be repeated.

In fact,
let me be sure and precise
in this statement:
if ever another occasion occurs
where you hear a phrase
akin to “stupid cunt-smooshing whore”
again,
be secure that I shall immediately apologize,
as speedily and direct
as I have right now.

After all,
who am I
to judge your profession?

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In A Cellular Bath

My reverse clone side-eyes me,
disgusted.
On the alternate plane where he was gene-spliced
in a cellular bath
on an asteroid belt
somewhere near Sirius
he conquered his star system
in his tweens.

By the time he had finished high school
he was a best selling dancer
and joke machine
– and, apparently,
he’d already abdicated his warlordship
so they liked his art
based on merit.

The man who shares my alternate history heredity
the reverse clone from that other world,
has forgotten more women
than I’ve ever met
and fathered more abortions
than I have had partners
(the fact that he speaks
using such terms
shows just how separated are
our realities).

He believes I have failed to live up to my potential.
I believe his values are abhorrent
and he must be stopped
before he conquers my world
or ever dance-jokes again.
We’re both right.

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A Little More Conservation

It’s good that you’re writing songs now
a step in the right direction
but is there any way
that you might consider making them
just a little bit less Springsteen?

No, I don’t.
I love Springsteen.
I think he’s the best there is
at what he does
and what he does is pretty damned great
but here’s the thing:
he beat you to it.
There’s a Springsteen
already there in the record bins
and you ain’t it.

And I don’t blame you
for aping your betters.
It’s how everybody learns
how everybody starts
but if there was some possibility,
a remote chance that you could stop
I would very much recommend you take it.

Try it, please.
Just a little less Springsteen
and a little bit more you.
That’d be gear.
That’d be boss.

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About Lars

Lars seems great.
He’s smart and tall
and definitely into you.
So attentive.
So attractive.

You could do a lot worse than Lars
– hell, I know you have,
a dozen times.
Lars is a catch
and I’m proud of you
for persevering past
all those toads you once tongued
(present company included)
to get to this happiness
you so richly deserve.

You deserve everything.

You deserve peace and satisfaction
and the passion that
only that prince of a guy can provide.
After so long,
so many years with schmoes like me,
to at last love Lars?
Congratulations.
You did it.

What was that?
Did you say something?
Nothing?
I could have sworn…
Anyway, about Lars…

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The Secrets

The secrets you have yet to share
are the ones I am most interested in.
Whatever aspects you have kept from me
are the depths I hope to plumb.

I’ll keep digging through your history
in the hopes of further gold flecks
that will make you shine even brighter
in my eyes.
Only by knowing the unknowable
will I reach the glory of experiencing
all of you.

Once I learn everything
you have to share, though,
I hope you’re fully prepared
to make more mysteries
hiding them in your past
so that when I dig into the dirt
we don’t end up
as stick-in-the-muds.

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The Race

When there is no one else competing
the contest is even harder,
for the only person
you have to beat
is you
and the rules you place
at the start of the race.

And sure,
you can cheat
in this unnamed competition
but what is the point?
Who are you cheating
but yourself?
So you hew to the stones around you
even if that is perhaps
not the correct usage of that phrase
(Oh, it isn’t?
Well, maybe I’ll fix it later)
and race the path you’ve outlined
and you hope you’ll accomplish everything you planned
and if you fail,
you fail.

There is no one judging you
unless you admit to the rest
there was a race
and you couldn’t keep pace.
But why would you do that?
Why bother to announce
your intended accomplishments
only to have to explain the failures later?
Why set yourself up
to admit your loss
to yourself?

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Nines

Nine times nineis just the time
that my father would have
if he were alive.
He’d have passed through his decade
numbered through nine
were he still around,
if he but thrived.

It’s over two years
since my dad passed
since his ashes were trashed
or blown onto grass.
On his blessed memory
I’ve often dined
since my father died
at seventy nine.

If he were around
still on this day
it’s clear this piece here
I wouldn’t yet say.
His demise in the future
I would divine
or dread, or interpret
while searching for signs.

But as it stands
my father lays dead
– yet still clearly haunting
embedded in head.
Years after his death
he’ll abide until mine,
when I lay bones to rest
on my nine times nine.

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Truth is Tart

You wrote about zombies
and now you’re dead.
You always seemed so sincere in your work
so the irony might have been lost on you
even were you living.

I can’t imagine
what would kill you.
You seemed so vibrant
in your art
and you’re younger than me.
It’s a shame
but I guess it’s plain
that the voice you use
might not always express every single truth
that you contain.

My words do not represent all of me
and neither,
I suppose,
would zombies be all of you
any more than either of us,
really,
can be encapsulated in dreams.

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