One Year in the bag!

So, today is our anniversary. Em and I are just hanging around the house today with Indie. We're gonna go to dinner tonight at a Vegetarian Restaurant called Carmelita. I looks really good. Em always gives me crap about my writing 'cause I write about drugs, and murders, and small towns, and magic (all of which I have no experience with...not really), and I can't seem to right anything decent about her--not even a song (except I have written songs about her...but not till we moved to Cruces and I really, really worked on them). It's hard to write about things I'm close to. The non-fiction book I'm writing about is mostly looking back...it's easier that way. I can look back on myself then and the situation and attack them with objectivity--to some extent. But with writing about Em...it's just hard to write without sounding fucking stupid or lame or done-to-death. But for the last year I've been working on a poem. I finished it this week, though, who knows, I'll probably revise it again. I made a mini-chapbook out of it and gave it to Em.

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Here it is:

THE RED ELVISES AND A WEDDING ON THE HILL

our narrative snakes and spans—

there are scenes like landmarks along the way.

*

there’s the read elvises already half-way through their set

at the wild buffalo, and you’re already drunk. when you

escape the table to dance, i ask my friend your name, and

all he says is, “she’s taken, dude.” they introduce us, and two

weeks later you meet us at ihop for coffee and pancakes.

*

there’s the black-hole-of-an-apartment always reeking

of stale sweat and old cigarettes, where i get pretty good

at insulting you, and you get pretty good at dishing it back.

you’d come downstairs and join us on that black couch and

we’d pretend we didn’t want to shuck each other’s clothes off.

*

there’s the phone call, you angry, hurt, saying, “why are you so

mean to me?” and me apologizing, telling you i like you, that

i thought it funny—just a joke, that i didn’t mean anything.

*

there’s the horseshoe café two days later and my sweating palms,

and the three pall mall 100s i kill on the walk there. i know it

is friendly—just a cup of coffee and a truce—but i keep picturing

you naked, our bodies meshing, my lips and fingers learning you.

*

there’s the coffee shop where i tell you to leave him

and marry me, but you keep telling me to shut up.

and your face goes soft, then hard—

you are upset. i don’t think you believe me.

*

there’s the walks funneling through the brick of downtown, up

commercial, down cornwall, along holly and railroad, always

with good coffee, and me always answering your claims with,

“it really is.” this becomes a daily thing. i rise and clear my day for it.

*

there’s the corner of chestnut and cornwall. me in my second-hand army

jacket, you in your grey coat, hood down, when i tell you i want to be with you,

and will wait till its over. you just shake your head and say, “ok, josh.”

*

there’s the park bench at boulevard, the sun in our faces,

the waves making beats on the shore, the wind blowing

our hair around, where you tell me it’s over with him. i want

to smile, but you’re hurt, and i say, “i’m sorry, you ok?”

and you say, “it was headed that way for a while, anyway.”

we stand and keep circling the park, talking about other things.

*

there’s the late pickup from campus, where you

drive us in silence to bum-park, blocks from my

apartment, and you’re acting strange, not really

looking at me, just ahead, your body straightened

and focused. you cut straight across the park to

where the creek is and sit us on the bench. “i was

feeling really weird when i went home,” you say

and part of me thinks this is where you kick me

to the curb, but instead you say, “i think you should

kiss me.” and so i do. months later, when i move

into your place, i stand on the balcony and look

down at the bench by the creek.

*

there’s the night after my show, when we drank

till we wanted to be naked and you came home

with me and in the morning i woke and you had left

*

there’s the secret we kept till beers at the beaver

where it split wide open—transparently in love—

and our other friendships turned on us, became

the dark space between hate and decency.

*

there’s the down-sized wedding ending in a backyard

overlooking big lake with our close friends and family,

and our friends band playing songs about being young

and ignorant of responsibility. we were worried about rain,

but the sun reddened our skin and that night in our hotel we

drank champagne colored by skittles we dropped to the bottom.

*

and here’s one year in our belt, where we gathered

a dog, an oncoming baby, and a need for seattle.

so, now we’re back home in the northwest,

waiting for the tail of october to whip around,

and catching what we can of this pacific summer.

****

OK. In other news/things to look at. Check out Uncanny Valley. My friends Mike and Tracy from NMSU have started this journal. They're cool people and have a really interesting taste with writing. Check it out. Read about it. Submit.

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OK. I'm gonna eat some oatmeal.

laters.

Joshua