It was Not-My-Car-Not-My-Town-Not-My-Love night on State Route 14

Previously, the questions had been M-words

calling out for fluttery eyelash maybes,

sidelong sly warmth and caged half-breed hopes.

But not hidden under these trees;

not with the sweet sting of it hovering;

not in the arch of the angles where cold meets cold.

It’s just science, so

TUNE.

IN.

TOKYO.

Here they calculate the physics of the unsaid;

the throbbing ache of no; the hypothetical void of the decade.

1 + 1 = too fake laughter trying too hard.

Fast-forward through this business meeting, cause

everything he says is please, please, see me.

She wishes he wouldn’t chatter so,

while he wishes she would

say any, any, anything except

you don’t have to say that, you know

when he labels her lips perfect.

Baptized in apathetic cigarette smoke

she catches glances like snowflakes.

A Secret

*This is a real recurring dream. It really recurs with really recurring vengeance.


I keep having this dream.

Everything is yellow in the cab of a truck. We have been hitchhiking, and we finally got picked up. I should be relieved because I'm so tired from this particularly waring day, but I'm fumbling with something in my hands and hoping we'll stop soon. The trucker has long hair, a mustache, aviator shades, and a big smile. He takes care of his teeth, you can tell. The guy keeps talking and gesturing but I don't understand his words. He's probably a well-intentioned dude; everyone else has been. I'm still uneasy. Like we're running from something.

You feel my tense body next to you, and you smile. You put your arm around me. I get even more tense. You put your hand on the side of my face, right by my ear. You don't say anything. Your eyes are are not as condescending as I expected. I feel everything inside cooling off, like that one soft gesture is the answer to everything ever. I exhale. My heart begins to beat normal. I've never felt anything like this.

But this doesn't last. Something isn't right. Your hand doesn't belong here. This isn't the way it is or ever was. This feels like a lie. I am utterly confused. Images flashing through the dream as I try to find the place where this could have begun. I want the missing link. I can't find the missing link. Things repeat, like I'm shuffling through a yearbook or something. I move out of your embrace, panicked. You and the trucker watch me as I try to control the panic by putting my hand over my heart and my mouth. The trucker starts to laugh.

I worry myself awake, pulse racing. Even though it's not the type of dream I'd file under "nightmare," this feels awful. For the third, fourth, fifth time.

My dreams talk to me. They generally tell me something I already know.

I know this dream is supposed to help me understand something bigger than what I'm willing to understand, but I'm tired of trying to decipher it. The obvious answer doesn't seem right.

Vacation from Myself

I remember what it felt like to be loved
or to play pretend that it was love

I trust you, I trust you, I trust you
I trust you, I trust you, I trust you


He said it in whispery tones in that silly fedora
on the secret wood steps behind the hospital

I suppressed Don't. That isn't logical
Instead, I trust you, too

Trembling kisses struggling to give the words breath
I guess we thought it would heal us, somehow